


Chasing Shadows

by amylaura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Eastern European Politics, Espionage, Infant Death, John & Mary are still married but it's not the focus of the story, John has anger and guilt, Mostly S3 Compliant, My First Fanfic, Mycroft has plans, Pregnancy complications, References to prior drug use, Sherlock Undercover, Sherlock misses London and John, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, rated for later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 133,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amylaura/pseuds/amylaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes leaves on his suicide mission at the end of His Last Vow, with no miraculously timed message that cancels his exile. His mission is to travel to Russia and discover what he can about Putin's plans for the Crimean Peninsula before his time runs out. Meanwhile, the people back in London struggle to deal with Sherlock's absence, until a series of events means that London needs Sherlock again. But can Sherlock be rescued in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the characters portrayed in this story. All rights are with the original holders. Please don't show this to anyone associated with the show.
> 
> I am not an expert in Eastern European geography, culture or politics - my information comes mostly from Google searches, Google Maps and from watching Top Gear. My use of Russia and Ukraine in this story is solely to attempt to base Sherlock’s mystery mission from Mycroft in actual current events. I certainly have no inside information into the real (and very serious) ongoing situation. Any similarity between what is depicted here and any events that actually occur during the current situation are purely coincidence (in case the NSA is watching this…). The attitudes expressed by the characters are also not reflective of my feelings towards the subject, setting, etc. The buildings, parks, etc described in this story are based on hours spent combing Google Maps. I find it easier to tell a story if I have a geographic point of reference for the location of the action. Any similarity between what happens in this story and the real-life places I describe is purely coincidence. 
> 
> This is not a ‘fix-it’ fic. The only deviation from Season 3 is that last 15 seconds of HLV didn't happen - there was no miraculously timed video message from Moriarty. Mary is also going to be portrayed in a mostly sympathetic voice, in case that's something you need to be warned about.

**New Year’s Day 2014**

Silhouetted against a bright, blue sky, two lone figures stood on the tarmac of a remote airfield, watching as the plane carrying Sherlock Holmes grew smaller and smaller in the sky. Even after the small dot vanished past the horizon, they stayed there, lingering as if refusing to leave would be enough to bring him back home. The other people who had borne witness to Sherlock’s departure had faded away as the plane vanished. The woman slowly turned towards her companion, concern creasing her brow as she watched him stare longingly at the place where the plane had disappeared. His face was stoic except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. That and the slight shake in the hand in her grasp were the only signs of the emotional strain weighing on his broad shoulders.

Mary Watson didn't know how to break the silence that was pressing down on them; it was obvious that John was shutting down, bottling up his emotions to keep from drowning under the weight of them. In the last week since he had returned from Appledore, John had barely spoken to anyone. Whenever anyone had tried to draw him out of his shell, he would stare pointedly in the opposite direction or abruptly leave the room. He had spent most of the last week sitting in his chair, staring blindly at the wall. After almost three full days of silence, Mary had played her last card, broaching the subject of their unborn baby. Since John had missed them during their separation, she had talked about the changes she had seen during her doctor appointments and what the obstetrician had to say about the baby’s progress. To her surprise and relief, he hadn't immediately turned away from her, so Mary kept talking, taking John through all the developments in the pregnancy that he had missed. She also mentioned that a scan had been scheduled for the next afternoon and asked if he wanted to come with her and see the baby. After days of silence and looking at the back of his head, Mary had been surprised when John had turned slowly in his chair and made eye contact with her for the first time since Christmas Day. She had been shocked to see not only a glitter of tears in his deep, blue eyes, but the first signs of interest in something other than his internal turmoil. A solid minute had passed in silence, as John had looked like he was struggling to remember how to speak. Eventually, he had closed his mouth and just nodded at her. Even though he hadn't actually said anything, Mary had felt like it was the first sign that the ice encasing him was beginning to thaw. Once they arrived at the appointment, John had shown even more signs of engaging with the world around him, paying attention to everything the doctor had to say and asking lots of questions. He had even managed a tight smile in her direction a time or two. While the technician had performed the scan, his eyes had been glued to the screen almost the whole time, a huge grin eventually lighting up his face as he studied the image of their daughter.

Unfortunately, his improved mood hadn't lasted long. Mycroft had summoned them later that very afternoon to his office and outlined the bare facts of his brother’s situation. Sherlock had agreed to work abroad for MI6, presumably as part of a deal to keep whatever had happened at Appledore from being prosecuted. Mycroft had been emphatic that John wasn't allowed to discuss anything about their activities with anyone, not even with Mary. If any of the details leaked to the press or public, he insisted, Sherlock could be subject to prosecution and imprisonment. Mary wasn't a complete fool, however. Even without knowing the exact chain of events, she had pieced together a basic outline of what had happened. All the papers had printed the news that Magnussen had died on Christmas Day, of what they were calling unknown natural causes. That fact, combined with the threat of prosecution, made it obvious that Sherlock had fulfilled the vow he had made at their wedding in the most literal way possible. The pallor of John’s face at the conclusion of the meeting with Mycroft continued to haunt Mary, in addition to confirming her suspicions. Whatever actions Sherlock had taken, they had been to protect the Watson family from the blackmailing mogul. 

John had relapsed into total silence after the black car had dropped them off at home. He was obviously shutting all the way down in his struggle to keep his emotions in check. John was one of the most stereotypical ‘British’ men Mary had ever known; he hated showing emotion or trying to express his feelings. Mary hadn't known what else to do, so she had left him alone, in the hope that he would eventually come to terms with what had happened. And now, as they stood on the deserted runway, John was shutting down even further. Mary stood there, feeling his hand shaking in hers, completely unsure if she should even try to break the silence that felt like it was smothering them. After all, John prided himself on his ability to never give in to the hurt swirling inside him. He was almost as reserved as he had been when she first met him, when he had bottled up all the emotional devastation from Sherlock’s ‘suicide’.

As she waited for some sign that John was ready to leave the base, Mary’s thoughts drifted to the goodbyes John and Sherlock had just shared. Something about the whole conversation between them had been very uncomfortable for her to witness, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it had been. She was sure that Sherlock’s smile had been forced most of the time he had been talking with John. It wasn't his ‘charm a stranger’ fake smile, but it hadn't been the full, natural smile she had seen the two of them exchange on a number of occasions. It had only been when John had looked away, laughing at something Sherlock had said, that she had seen his mask drop. In those brief moments, the look on Sherlock’s face had stolen Mary’s breath away. There had been pain and something else in that proud, angular face. She wasn't sure she could pin a name on the emotion visible in his face; she only knew that witnessing that look had made her feel like a voyeur, intruding on something that should have been private. If she was pressed, Mary guessed she would say Sherlock looked heart broken. It wasn't an emotion that she would have readily applied to him, but those brief seconds of unguarded emotions had been almost physically painful to witness. 

A movement from beside her broke Mary’s train of thought. John had finally turned away from the place where the plane had disappeared. Looking at his face, which was already lined with the stress from the war, Sherlock’s fall and their own less-than-peaceful marriage, Mary wasn't surprised that the cold winter sunshine couldn't hide that the pallor of John’s face had grown worse over the last hour or so. His skin looked grey, the stress lines standing out in stark relief around his pinched lips and tired eyes.

“Are you ready?” she asked quietly, tightening her grip on his hand. She was getting quite cold, but she would stay here as long as John needed to. However, John nodded briefly before turning and leading the way back to the waiting car, finally heading in the opposite direction of the plane.

\-----

A quick glance back at the couple still standing on the tarmac was all he allowed himself as his sleek black car slid through the security perimeter of the air base. The silence inside his car sat heavily on the bespoke suit-clad shoulders of Mycroft Holmes as his driver started to trip back to London. The stress of the last week had definitely taken its toll. Mycroft had been forced to reach deep into his bag of political tricks to shield Sherlock from potential prosecution for his actions at Appledore. While most of Mycroft's colleagues were privately relieved that a man who had preyed on some of the most powerful people in the land was no longer a threat, none of them would condone Sherlock’s vigilante-like behavior. If he were completely honest, Mycroft would feel the same way if the action had been carried out by anyone other than his baby brother. Trying to frame the compromise punishment as anything other than him sheltering his brother from the consequences of his actions had been the most difficult part of the tense negotiations over the last week.

The atmosphere inside his car now was completely different than it had been just a few hours ago. On the trip out to the airfield, Sherlock had been wound tight, the nervous energy pouring off him causing the enclosed atmosphere in the car to vibrate. Now, with the empty seat next to him weighing heavily on his mind, Mycroft began to grow irritated with himself. It was beyond ridiculous that he found himself wishing he could turn the car around and head back. A very small part of Mycroft, usually buried deep beneath duty and rigorous repression, wanted to stand next to John Watson on that windy tarmac and refuse to leave until that small plane had delivered its cargo safely back home.

 _Sentiment,_ he scoffed silently, _the downfall of a civilised mind._ Sentiment was what had brought them to this fatal point. Specifically, the mostly unspoken sentiment for one former army captain was what had finally brought his brother down. Mycroft could still remember every moment of those initial meetings with John Watson, while Sherlock had been working the case of the murderous cab driver. That first encounter should have gone smoothly enough - a broke, invalided army doctor should have been an easy target for Mycroft's specialized forms of manipulation. But the loyalty and the strength of character that John had shown that night had been truly remarkable. He had been forced to admit that this unlikely man seemed, at least at second glance, to be the perfect companion for his reckless but extremely gifted younger brother.

_“He’ll either be the making of my brother... or make him worse than ever.”_

His words to Anthea after the second meeting, as he had watched Sherlock and John giggle after Jefferson Hope’s murder and stride off into London’s darkness echoed back to him in the silence of the car. Mycroft still wasn't sure which of those options had happened over the course of their ensuing friendship. It was entirely possible that they were both equally true. Sherlock had found someone who grounded him and occasionally inspired him to be better while also encouraging some of his brother’s more headstrong and, at times, immature behavior.

As the car purred towards the distant city skyline, Mycroft found that he couldn't blame Sherlock for his lapse into sentiment, no matter what it had ultimately cost him. In John Watson’s company, his brother had found a sort of peace that he had never known, with the possible exception of those long-ago cocaine binges that had nearly destroyed him. But while those drug-induced moments of serenity had been so destructive, John Watson had ultimately proven to be a uniquely powerful asset. A quiet sigh signaled Mycroft's attempt to pull himself out of his internal turmoil. Glancing around the luxurious interior of the car, his eye fell onto his attaché case on the floor. It contained two dossiers; one detailed the series of tense and long negotiations that had allowed Sherlock to escape murder charges. It had taken more of his colleagues to sign off on the plan than Mycroft had anticipated. The high-profile nature of the deceased certainly played into that; Mycroft also knew that some of the people involved were no doubt hoping that their agreement would give them some sort of leverage over him. (Not that Mycroft would allow anything like personal favors to influence his agenda and career.)

The other dossier was twice as thick as Sherlock’s. The contents made him feel slightly uneasy. Sherlock had informed him that John had steadfastly refused to look at the flash drive that his wife had given him, but Mycroft felt no such moral quandary. In the chaos following Sherlock’s collapse in Baker Street, John had left the flash drive sitting on the table next to his chair (ironically next to that telltale bottle of perfume). While John had been occupied at the hospital, Mycroft had swiped it and copied the data. He wasn't concerned about the invasion of the Watsons' privacy; the woman had nearly killed his baby brother in the name of protecting her own self-interest. She hadn't been protecting John or their child when she had pulled the trigger.

The information on the drive had revealed why Magnussen had been threatening her; she had told Sherlock the truth about her past activities. The information on that drive would have been enough to send her to prison for the rest of her life, if she was lucky enough to be prosecuted in a civilised country that didn't allow for more ... permanent ... punishment. She had been an operative of several governments, carrying out operations that Mycroft himself was familiar with. There had been evidence enough to link her to several suspicious deaths in the international intelligence community that had teased Mycroft's attention over the past decade. For the time being, Mycroft was content to leave that information alone, mostly due to his respect for John Watson. One of his last conversations with Sherlock before his departure had concerned the soon-to-be expanding family. Sherlock had heavily implied that he was aware of most of the details surrounding Mary Watson’s history, although he hadn't indicated if that had been through the flash drive or his own deductions. The only request Sherlock had made during the last week had been to ask that Mycroft look out for John Watson, but not interfere in his life unless it was a matter of his or the baby’s personal safety.

The main reason Mycroft agreed to leave the Watsons alone was the fact that, with the obvious exception of her involvement with the Magnussen affair, Mary’s illicit activities did indeed seem to be solidly in her past. Her last mission had been five years ago, in a particularly shady area of Brazil. After that, she had faked her death, relocated to the UK, adopted her current identity, and tried to blend into life as an average civilian. She had even attended a medical training facility before getting the job at the surgery that had led to her meeting John. So he had agreed with Sherlock that his only interference in their lives would be unobtrusive security surveillance.

The text alert from his mobile interrupted his train of thought; the message from Anthea brought his attention back to the present day. A quick glance out the window showed that they were back in the city; the streets of London were still fairly deserted. Apparently most of the city population had chosen to enjoy New Year’s Day indoors. According to his assistant, Lady Smallwood was requesting a meeting for this afternoon to follow-up on Sherlock’s exile. Another sigh escaped from Mycroft as he considered the request. Sherlock’s exile was only the first part of his plan. Unfortunately, it had been the easiest part to accomplish. He hadn't informed anyone about his ultimate agenda, including his own brother. Until it was the right time, no one could know his end game. There was simply too much to lose if it were to go wrong.

\-----

_"Sherlock is really a girl's name."_

That ridiculous sentence was playing on repeat inside his head. It wasn't even what Sherlock had meant to say in his final meeting with John Watson. There had been so many more meaningful admissions he had wanted to make before it was too late. There were so many things that Sherlock had wanted to confess to the man who had changed his life simply by limping into the lab at Bart’s. But standing on that runway with Mycroft and Mary lingering nearby, Sherlock had looked into that comforting face and had chickened out. As much as he had longed to confess his biggest secrets, Sherlock realized that he couldn't do that to his best friend. John Watson was happy and safe, everything that Sherlock had ever wanted for him.

So Sherlock hadn't said any of the confessions he had thought about so much over the last week, while he sat at Mycroft’s home, under the watchful eye of several of his brother’s best agents. The type of admission that he had planned on making would have placed a burden on John that he would have struggled under for a long time, possibly for the rest of his life. Standing there with John so obviously trying to hide everything he was feeling, Sherlock had changed his mind. He just couldn't bring himself to add any additional burdens for his best friend to carry. 

Instead, he had made that throw-away comment, a silly quip about his name. In return, John had gifted him with one of his rarest smiles, the one that lit up his face and accompanied by a laugh that shook his compact frame. Sherlock had frozen that image of John, laughing and smiling, in his mind palace as something to comfort him for the difficult path ahead. Sherlock kept repeating to himself that the sacrifice had been worth it. John and Mary were safe. Their family would grow soon and before long, the mad detective with the funny name would just be an infrequent but fond blip in their memories, nothing more than a wild tale to tell their grandchildren years from now. The three of them would forge a new life. If he was honest, Sherlock was a bit jealous of that life and had been looking forward to watching it develop, all from a safe distance, naturally. But that life was beyond his reach now, just another of unattainable dream.

Boarding the helicopter at his parents’ house, Sherlock had known there was a possibility that the mission to Appledore would end violently. Watching the countryside slip beneath him now, he still couldn't believe he had never once thought that Magnussen’s archives could be metaphorical rather than physical. He, Sherlock Holmes, who out-thought and out-planned everyone, had been played from the start. It was humiliating. _“That's your weakness”_ echoed a voice from the grave. _"You always want everything to be clever."_ But Magnussen hadn't been playing a game; he hadn't been trying to prove he was more clever or wily. He had been after power. It was the one pursuit that Sherlock had never really been tempted by. That was Mycroft's chosen arena. His brother enjoyed the games and struggles that came with the pursuit of power and influence. It was what made him such a successful 'minor government official.' But it politics and personal power plays had always been an anathema to Sherlock.

Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to put all that behind him. He couldn't though; the image of John's helplessness as Magnussen flicked his cheek followed by the horror in his voice as Sherlock shot the blackmailer in the head refused to be pushed aside or deleted. By that point, Sherlock had been out of options. There had been nothing clever that he could do. Magnussen had won and the only thing Sherlock could do was reply with blunt force. There weren't many people for whom Sherlock would have sacrificed everything. The list was incredibly and deliberately brief. He had never planned on having friends of any sort. He had always considered friendships beneath him. Plus, with the ever-present danger in his job, friends had always seemed like weak points that could be exploited by a proficient enemy. Somehow, against his better judgment, Sherlock had ended up with what felt like a plethora of people that were important to him.

But there wasn't anything more that Sherlock could do for any of them. He had played his final card. He had known as he grabbed the gun from John’s pocket that he was ending his own life as well as Magnussen’s. Mycroft would never have let him go to prison, but there was only so much he could do once Sherlock fired the gun in front of all those agents.

As the Channel disappeared beneath the plane, Sherlock felt a tear slip down his cheek. This was really it. It was the end of the game. There would be no more Baker Street, no more heads in the fridge and no more exasperated shouting from a flatmate pushed to the limits of his patience and sanity. No more staring at John's empty chair and wishing for something he couldn't quite define. He had done everything possible for John. The mission was over. It wasn't the ending that Sherlock had planned for himself, true, but it had taken care of all the problems, nonetheless. John and Mary were safe. It was enough. And maybe, if he kept repeating that to himself enough, he would even start to believe it.

Sherlock didn't bother checking his tears as the plane flew him further and further away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a fanfic, so all constructive comments and criticism are welcome! I'm loosely going to commit to posting every Sunday, with the caveat that I'm heading into a very busy time of year at my job, so I hope you'll be patient if I miss a week here or there. 
> 
> This fic has not been beta'd or britpic'd. 
> 
> I've set up a tumblr account for my writing, for previews, a place to ask questions, etc. - http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/
> 
> I have a more general tumblr as well, where I post fandom stuff, geekery, and some of my personal photography - http://amylaura76.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

**January 1, 2014**

The small airplane finally began its descent just as dusk was giving the sky a rose-coloured tint. Sherlock spared a quick glance out the window, but didn’t waste much time analyzing the airport or the city just to the south. He had passed through Gomel Airport once before, during those two years he had spent dismantling the spider’s web. It didn’t qualify as a hive of international activity, which was certainly advantageous for this mission. Sherlock’s brief was fairly straightforward. MI6 had heard rumors of a developing situation near the Ukraine/Russia border and they needed someone to investigate. So here he was, landing in Gomel, Belarus, which was close enough to Ukraine and Russia to get him inserted into the arena quickly, but still far enough away that his arrival shouldn’t be noticed by any other intelligence operations that could be monitoring the situation.

A second glance out the window as the plane taxied across the runway allowed Sherlock to spot his welcoming committee; two men, dressed in dark clothing, were lurking in the shadow of a hanger towards the end of the runway. He gave them a short, assessing glance as the plane coasted to a stop, before dismissing them as unimportant. They were both young and almost certainly weren’t experienced enough to be of any use in this mission; if he saw them past tonight, Sherlock would be truly surprised. His coat billowed behind him like a cape as he hurried down the plane steps and towards the nondescript black car half hidden behind the hanger. The taller of the agents arrived at the car first and jerked open the back door. Stowing his duffle bag near his feet, Sherlock stared down at his hands, ignoring the world around him as the two agents sat in the front seat and started the car moving through the gathering darkness. 

The countryside of southeast Belarus passed by mostly unnoticed as they headed through the city and east towards the Russian border. Sherlock’s primary impression of it was that the land was extremely flat, almost unnaturally so. The only breaks in the flat horizon were the sporadic church spires, most of which were crumbling from age, disrepair, and neglect. The bright colors they had been painted in their primes had long since faded and chipped away. It took almost an hour of driving through the countryside before they made it to the border with Russia, which was marked by nothing more than an old shack and traffic gate; once there, they slipped across it with little more than a brief pause from the car and a cursory glance from the border agent. The darkness swallowed the crossing barely a minute after they had driven through it. It was only another quarter of an hour before the meager lights of Vyshkov, the first town over the border, started showing against the night sky. A few short blocks of flats provided the only variations in the skyline above the treetops. The car skirted along the northern edge of the small town, past residential streets that had all seen better days, with overgrown gardens looming behind dilapidated and crumbling fences.

Finally, the car pulled up outside a faded and dilapidated green house on the north side of the town. Sherlock barely waited for it to slow to a complete stop before opening the door and stepping out into the cold night. The quiet babble of a nearby river filled the otherwise completely silent night. The only other sound was the muttering of his two escorts as they rushed to follow. Sherlock couldn’t keep a smirk off his face as he heard them grumble in his wake; it wasn’t his problem if they felt driving him around was a waste of their time and abilities. Sherlock quietly slipped inside the house, taking in the various signs of neglect and abandonment, before the sounds of an argument from the next room made him turn in that direction. 

“Too much risk...” one of the voices was proclaiming emphatically, “...not enough payoff.” Sherlock smiled as he recognized the voice of Ivan Novik, one of the directors of the Belarus State Security Office, whom Sherlock had liaised with the last time he had been here. They had butted heads repeatedly over Sherlock’s unwillingness to follow the other man’s idiotic procedures during the three months it had taken to dismantle a smuggling operation. Novik couldn’t be thrilled to have Sherlock back in his personal playground. Sherlock fondly recalled the barrage of profanity and insults the man had exploded with when Novik had learned that Sherlock had done precisely what Novik had forbidden during one particularly harrowing stage of the operation.

As Sherlock stepped into the room, the two men already there stopped their argument and turned towards him. Sure enough, the angry-looking man standing closer to the door was Novik. The only significant changes to his personage were that he had somehow managed to add on at least four stone to what had already been a portly body and a sharp increase in the amount of grey hair mixed in with the muddy brown on the top of his head. His bushy mustache quivered beneath his large nose. 

“Mr. Holmes,” he said in his low, monotone voice as Sherlock moved toward the center of the room. Novik nodded at the two escorts, causing the two men to turn around abruptly and head back towards the door. Apparently they weren’t cleared to even be within earshot of the briefing. “Such a great … pleasure… to be working with you again.” Sherlock smirked over the exceedingly obvious disdain.

“How are you, Novik? Still attempting to work things out with your wife?” Sherlock's smirk grew fractionally wider as the man’s face turned an impressive shade of red. Novik hadn’t enjoyed having his marital and extramarital affairs being spelled out quite so succinctly within minutes of their first meeting. The man growled in reply and the rage in his eyes grew brighter. The other man in the room coughed pointedly, drawing Sherlock’s attention away from the bristling official and diffusing some of the tension growing in he shabby living room.

“Ah, Agent Lysenko,” Sherlock drawled. “Have you drawn the short straw again? How disagreeable for you.” Maksym Lysenko had been the agent Novik had assigned to assist Sherlock two years ago. Lysenko was a bit of an enigma, even to Sherlock. He managed to blend into just about every crowd, even though he was at least several inches taller than the average Russian. His personality was similar to John’s in some ways; he was certainly more complex than he seemed at first glance. There was something buried in his past, something traumatic that occasionally came bubbling up to the surface, despite years of repression. Sherlock hadn’t been able to deduce much about it the last time they worked together; maybe he would have the opportunity to do a bit of prying on this assignment.

“You understand that I had hoped never to see you again,” Lysenko answered in his familiar gravelly drawl. Sherlock chuckled, barely refraining from winking at the other agent. Their posturing was solely for Novik's benefit; Sherlock had found Lysenko's company mostly tolerable during their brief time together two years ago. He was no John, obviously, but Sherlock found him to be competent, moderately observant and willing to follow Sherlock’s lead without much complaint.

“If we could get back to the business at hand?” Novik barked in irritation. The three men gathered around a table on the side of the room, which was covered in papers. One pile turned out to reports on the location of various Russian Army divisions in the region, while a second, larger pile covered Putin’s rhetoric about Ukraine from the last twelve months. A map attempting to correlate known Russian military districts, commanders and troop locations was at the bottom of it all. Slowly, the three men began to sort out all the information Novik had assembled and began to work out a plan. 

Two hours later, Sherlock’s head was buzzing with information that was begging to be filed way. Over the last two months, there had been scattered reports of increased troop buildup and activity close to the Russian side of the border. Most of the activity was being reported from the area of Russia closest to the Crimean peninsula. As the world focused on the upcoming Olympic games, the Russian government seemed to be subtly preparing for something much more threatening than hockey and bobsled medals. 

“So while the world focuses on hotels that aren’t built and human rights issues, 400 kilometers to the north there are numerous reports of weapon depots being created and troops moving in an unexpected manner.” Lysenko summarized succinctly.

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered, mostly under his breath. “But why now? Just a smoke screen or does he have bigger plans?”

“Putin always has bigger plans,” Lysenko growled fiercely, causing Sherlock to look up, a bit surprised at the heat in that simple statement. Was it a reaction to his off-handed comment or something to do with Putin? Sherlock studied the man for a moment, but he still didn’t have sufficient data to draw a reliable conclusion. Shaking his head, he tabled that conundrum and refocused his thought processes on the information in front of him.

“Well, that’s all the intelligence we have,” Novik concluded. Sherlock bit back a grunt at the word ‘intelligence’; Mycroft’s files had contained several important details that Novik appeared to be lacking. “Your kits are over there,” Novik pointed at two large black sacks leaning up against the far wall. “I suggest you get some rest before you have to leave in the morning.”

\------

It was too quiet, Sherlock grumbled silently as he laid on top of his bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling. He hated being out of London. The city was like his mind; there was always a constant hum of background activity, even in the otherwise quiet hours just before dawn. The silence that normal people seemed to find so restful had always felt smothering to Sherlock. The only noise he could hear in the house was the slightly muffled sound of Lysenko snoring in the next room. Yes, it was much too quiet here.

After more than an hour of tossing and turning, Sherlock finally just launched himself out of the bed, muttering in his frustration. His brain could use a good, long stint on his sofa in Baker Street to sort out all the data running around and around inside his head. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the time to go through it all right now. The absence of his sofa was going to be a serious detriment to his mental state for the duration of this mission. He slammed the door on the memories that tried to creep in at that thought; he was trying to ignore what the completion of this mission would mean for him. Focusing on the end game would only make him sloppy, possibly putting others at risk. 

The tired old floorboards creaked softly beneath his bare feet as he walked down the hallway to the small bathroom. The faded, peeling wallpaper had long lost any colour or pattern it once held and age had turned the once-white floor tiles to that indescribable grey that screamed neglect. A quick glance in the cracked vanity showed that he was a man trapped between two worlds. His clothes were the coarse, everyday uniform of typical Russian civilians while his hair and expression reminded him of days spent in London, running through the shadows with John’s footsteps echoing behind him. 

“Enough of this,” he growled to himself. It was time to leave all that in the past, including the Consulting Detective, London and everything else that had composed his life before he pulled the trigger on John’s gun. Spying a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet, Sherlock realized what he needed to do.

Taking a deep breath, he raised the rusty blades to his forehead and started to cut.

\--------

Sherlock and Lysenko were in the car and moving a couple hours later, just as dawn was beginning to break. The other man had done a quick double take and let out a grunt of surprise when he had joined Sherlock in the kitchen an hour ago, but other than that, he hadn’t really commented on the new brutally short haircut. Sherlock was glad for it, he was feeling out of sorts about his new look, a bit like a stranger in his own skin. He was missing his bespoke suits and normal haircut already. The biggest loss, though, was his Belstaff coat. It was his armour against an often cruel and inhospitable world. But it was too conspicuous for this part of the world. He also didn’t want it lost out here in the wilds of Western Russia when this was all over. He had entrusted it to Nikov with the explicit instructions that it be sent back to Mycroft once everything was finished. Mycroft would know what to do with it when the time came. 

Barely anyone was moving in Vyshkov as Lysenko drove them out of town, the empty road leading them towards the south. The next couple of days were going to be long, boring ones. They were due to meet one of Lysenko’s contacts in four days in Rostov-On-Don, right on the Ukrainian border. It was the easiest land route from Russia into Ukraine, so it made sense to start there. Retreating into his mind palace, Sherlock began sifting through the various intelligence reports, leaving Lysenko to deal with the details of getting them there.

This whole mission was highly frustrating. Sherlock couldn’t find many distinguishable patterns because of the gaping holes in the available information. Adding to the difficulties, Novik’s information was contradictory to Mycroft’s in several crucial areas. Normally, Sherlock would dismiss anything that was in opposition to Mycroft’s intelligence. His brother hadn’t become the one of de facto rulers of Britain because he was prone to overlooking details and rushing to judgments. Agents who did so didn’t last long in his departments. But this wasn’t England or Western Europe. Russian politics weren’t Mycroft’s bread and butter. This was Novik’s arena. As much as the man annoyed Sherlock with his habits and prejudices, Sherlock couldn’t allow his personal preferences to get in the way. As irritating as he found it, Sherlock was going to have to live with the contradictions until he could fill in the gaps himself.

Of course, a lot of the information was being clouded by the activities down in Sochi. The Winter Olympics were just about a month away. The international intelligence community was primarily focusing on potential threats to the athletes and visitors to the region as well as the typical Russian social and political climate, which could be described as "arrest everyone and sort out the charges afterwards". Whatever Putin and the Russian army were doing near Crimea just couldn’t compete with the salacious news coming out of Sochi and Moscow. It was a brilliant move on Putin’s part, using the world’s distractions as a cover for his real ambitions.

The little information that was getting through was unhelpfully vague. Troop movements were hard to track in Russia at the best of times. Were the rumors of tank movements near the Sea of Azov just typical Russian behavior or the build up to something bigger? No one seemed to know. Putin intentionally made it hard for outsiders to understand and track his troop movements for just this reason. There were also indications that not all the troops and equipment were staying in the region for long. That could mean that Putin was just moving his chess pieces for the hell of it, or he was being even more deceptive than usual. Sherlock couldn’t rule out the possibility that this type of activity was actually typical behavior from the Russian President who valued secrecy and deception. 

Novik had concluded that the inconsistencies were symptomatic of Putin’s regime rather than indicators of subterfuge or wiliness. But neither Sherlock nor Lysenko agreed with that supposition. The inconsistencies didn’t seem to be indicative of poor planning or disorganization. Whatever Putin was doing, which could range from ‘just’ trying to reclaim the Crimean Peninsula all the way up to the first step in a bigger and more ambitious land-grab program, was designed to provide the biggest impact on the Russian government and the shady businessmen who supported it. As much as the Western countries tended to laugh at Putin’s antics as a leader, they were effective in proving his his strength, power and determination to the Russian populace, which was, after all, his ultimate purpose.

\--------

Unfortunately, the trip down to Rostov-on-Don had been just as dreadfully boring as Sherlock had predicted. It had taken them twice as long as it should have to travel the couple hundred kilometers. Between the route changes to make sure they weren’t being followed and stopping a few times for Lysenko to check in with a source they happened to be near, the tedium of the trip was enough to fray Sherlock’s already stretched patience. It didn’t help alleviate the boredom that this southwestern part of Russia was just painfully dull to look at. There were no mountains to break up the horizon and all the small villages they were passing tended to look exactly the same. The only real difference between them were the colors of the churches they passed. Finally, three days after leaving the dilapidated safe house in Vyshkov, the beige car drew up outside another battered house on the north side of Rostov-on-Don, just as the sun was setting. The street was filled with almost identical houses all behind high garden walls. 

“Go ahead,” Maks said as Sherlock went to open the door. “I am going to go check in with a few sources.” Sherlock shot him an indignant look; he could be much more useful helping gather information instead of clicking his heels here. He just sighed in response. “You know why you are staying here. Because sources don’t like to talk in front of strangers and might stop cooperating completely if I were to bring someone as imperial-looking as you.” He cut across any potential retort that Sherlock would have made. “Check inside. Nikov said that he would have any new intelligence forwarded.”

Sherlock stormed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Why did everyone always assume he was bad at interrogating people? Opening the creaky gate, Sherlock picked his way through the overgrown kitchen garden. Tree branches blocked the path and the brick pavers beneath his feet were in more pieces than cobblestone. The back door of the small, red house was unlocked. Stepping inside, Sherlock cast his eyes quickly over the dated and worn furniture. An envelope on the coffee table in the small sitting room caught his eye. The streetlights through the window made it obvious that this wasn’t an envelope from Nikov; in one of the corners, a very discrete 'MH' monogram announced who the sender was. Smirking, Sherlock took the envelope through to the small kitchen at the back. How nice of his brother to make his presence felt this far from home. Sitting down in a rickety chair at the table, Sherlock slid open the envelope and got to work.

Two hours later, the rattle of the door handle announced Lysenko’s return. Sherlock cracked his eyes open and nodded at the man as he entered the kitchen, then resumed his thinking on the sofa. Mycroft’s information had been troubling. There were more reports of Russian troops massing near Krasnodar, definitely within striking distance of Crimea along the most direct route. The situation inside Ukraine was also growing more dangerous and volatile. The Euromaidan protests were gathering momentum; each week more and more people joined them, calling for political and social reform. They had been happening for over a month now. So far, they were mostly about integration with Europe instead of Russia, which made it easy to see why Putin would be interested in attempting the influence the outcome. The current president was closely aligned with Russia; Putin could be attempting to interfere to try to maintain the status quo. Or even more worryingly, he could be encouraging the unrest, waiting for an opportunity to step in and seize territory back for Russia.

Lysenko cursed loudly from the kitchen, drawing Sherlock out of his racing thoughts. Sherlock rolled off the sofa and moved to sit at the kitchen table.

“Did you find out anything useful from your contacts in town?” he asked as the other man continued to read through the lengthy intelligence report.

“Just gossip, really.” Maks responded as he turned a page. “Most of it about everything going on down in Sochi, not what is happening closer to home. Naturally, people are mostly preoccupied with that right now. The few people who have been talking about things other than the Games mentioned some recent comments made by Putin’s deputies about threats to Russians abroad, that kind of thing. There’s been nothing concrete or overtly threatening, of course. But most of the president's remarks have contained at least one mention of the importance of protecting Russia from outside influences.”

“Which most people are assuming is a reference to the international pressure about the new homosexuality laws, but could also be used to indicate that he intends to use this as a basis for land grabbing and protecting Russians in foreign lands.” 

“All this feels like a weird time-warp,” Lysenko commented as he shuffled through the reports again. Looking up, he caught Sherlock’s puzzled look and sighed. “80 years ago, I’m sure people were saying the same things in Poland and The Ardennes.” Sherlock continued to stare at Lysenko, wondering why the man was bringing this up. “One day, my friend, you really should read up on the Third Reich.”

Sherlock huffed in exasperation. “I’ll do that right after we finish this mission,” he returned darkly. Lysenko stilled before shooting an apologetic look in his direction. “No matter,” Sherlock assured him, cracking a small smile. “Contrary to popular opinion, I am at least familiar with the major events of the 20th century, even if I find it incredibly boring.”

“The similarities in rhetoric are indicative of grander plans. If there is a group that hasn’t forgotten the events that lead up to the Second World War, it’s the Russians, particularly in this region which was overrun and decimated in the quest for Lebensraum. So if Putin is using that same rhetoric, it’s not by coincidence.” Lysenko paused, obviously fighting the urge to veer off onto a historical and likely personal tangent. After a few deep breaths, he gathered himself enough to move the conversation back to the current situation. “Of course, I’m drawing theoretical connections while you are busy making factual ones,” Lysenko volunteered with a smirk. “I would imagine your connections are going to be more helpful in this case. So what kind of timetable do you think we are looking at?”

Sherlock frowned and considered the possibilities. “It doesn’t seem logical that Putin would make any major moves prior to the conclusion of the Olympics. The world is obsessed with these silly athletic contests and Putin’s detractors would love any excuse to call for more boycotts. He wouldn’t risk this showcase of his personal power.”

“True.”

“So that leaves us a window of about 6 weeks. The Games are scheduled to run until the end February.”

“So… do we have a plan?”

“Let’s stay here. Rostov isn’t a backwater. You have sources here. Let’s see what we can find. Give it a few weeks to see what we can track and watch the situation in Ukraine as well. I’m betting that the two situations are closer related than they appear to the average person.”

Lysenko paused, obviously debating the merits or staying versus moving to another location. It was few moments before he nodded in agreement. “I’ll get word to the various interested parties and put some more feelers out. There are enough government officials in town that we should be able to find some information from someone.”

Sherlock nodded and got up from the table. Heading back to the sofa, he laid back down to keep combing through the data, in the hope that a pattern would miraculously appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the descriptions of buildings and locations in this chapter are based on studying Google maps, but any coincidence between the events of this story and anything that happens at these locations is purely coincidence. 
> 
> Sorry, this chapter is a bit boring. Got to get the plot and timeline set up before we can move on to better things. This is my first attempt at writing a fanfic, so all constructive comments and criticism are welcome! 
> 
> This fic has not been beta'd or britpic'd.
> 
> I've set up a tumblr account for my writing, for previews, a place to ask questions, etc. - http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/
> 
> I have a more general tumblr as well, where I post fandom stuff, geekery, and some of my personal photography - http://amylaura76.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**January 15, 2014**

There was no place in England that Mycroft found quite as soothing as the quiet elegance of the Diogenes Club. Even in his office, his subordinates would interrupt him too frequently, usually to get face time with him, asking for help with problems that they were perfectly capable of handling themselves. That's why he chose to spend as much time ensconced in the plush private club as possible. It was unfortunate that he couldn't spend all day here, but Mycroft had long ago made a habit of enjoying at least an hour a day using the solitude to his advantage. The quiet of the deep carpet and thick walls allowed him to browse the news and examine correspondence with the absolute minimum amount of distraction. It was his haven in the middle of the turmoil, intrigue and stresses that filled the remainder of his day.

Additionally, the staff here were well-trained in the arts of discretion and invisibility. Nothing that happened within these walls was ever leaked to the outside world. None of the wait staff or attendants ever gave any indication that they had noticed that Mycroft suddenly started bringing additional reports with him each day to peruse or had taken to spending at least an hour more here than he had even a month ago. He would sit in the same extremely comfortable wingback chair in his favorite secluded corner, indulge in another excellent pot of tea and study the intelligence reports coming out of Eastern Europe, well away from the prying eyes of his fellow government officials. The discretion of the club staff was the primary reason that Mycroft had resolved to never read these reports anywhere else. They were well within his security clearance, naturally, but they were outside his immediate areas of concern. It would no doubt raise some suspicions amongst his coworkers if they realized how closely he was monitoring the region where his brother just happened to be stationed on a top-secret and probably fatal mission.

It has been two weeks since his brother had departed from that desolate air field. Two weeks spent discretely combing through as many reports about the Eastern European arena as he could acquire, searching for hints of Sherlock's activities and well-being. It would be much simpler if he could demand direct reports from him, of course, but that would bring unwanted scrutiny to the situation. Too many reports coming out of Russia would alert people both inside his own government and in the international intelligence community that there was something other than typical surveillance underway. It was just too risky.

As he examined today’s reports, Mycroft couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face as he found what he was searching for. The short code phrases that were woven throughout the report which could only be from Sherlock. It was an old code, one the two Holmes brothers had developed as children. It had begun as a game, leaving coded messages around the house to see if the other could find and decipher them. As they had grown older, the codes and hiding places had become more sophisticated. They hadn't needed them in almost two decades, ever since Mycroft had left for university. Sherlock had pointedly refused to communicate with Mycroft for most of his two years abroad chasing the shadows of Moriarty. He had vehemently insisted that any unnecessary communications would jeopardize the secrecy that was keeping John Watson, Martha Hudson, and Greg Lestrade unharmed. The only concession Sherlock had given him was to keep Mycroft informed whenever he moved to a new location. There had only been one other time Sherlock had broken his communication blackout during that entire mission; he had activated the emergency code in Serbia that had sent Mycroft rushing off to rescue him. 

On this mission, though, Sherlock was apparently relishing the challenge of updating Mycroft on his progress in as obscure a way as he could find. The code phrases had started to appear inside the reports almost as soon as Sherlock had been embedded in the region. They were subtle, nothing blatant enough to be recognized by anyone else who read the reports, but to Mycroft, they felt like a pat on the back, reassurances that his brother was safe.

Mycroft had a reason other than simple emotional assurance for studying the reports. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, not even Sherlock, but he had absolutely no intention of sacrificing his brother to the national interest, no matter the government's official position on Magnussen's death. Mycroft certainly hadn’t approved of Sherlock’s dash to Appledore nor the bait he had dangled in front of the blackmailer, but Sherlock was not going to die alone in the middle of Russia if Mycroft could prevent it. To sit by and watch from a safe distance while his brother was killed in action was not anything Mycroft was prepared to suffer. Crude ending or not, England was better off without Magnussen preying on its citizens and Mycroft was not going to stand idly by while his brother was sacrificed for that peace of mind. Whether or not he could manipulate the situation enough to bring him home eventually was unresolved as yet. His first priority was making sure he was ready to extract Sherlock before the inevitable end of the mission. His second was finessing his diplomatic contacts, to make sure they realized that Sherlock was too good an asset to let him perish on this mission. After that, he would worry about convincing his domestic allies that allowing Sherlock to languish in other countries was depriving England of one of its best defenders. 

A slight vibration from his mobile pulled Mycroft out of the intelligence reports. Frowning, he put the reports away to keep them safe from straying eyes before pulling it out of his jacket pocket. A frown creased his brow as he read the message from his assistant; unfortunately, a mild domestic instability appeared to be escalating. His personal attention on the matter was being requested, to keep it from becoming a full-blown crisis. Sighing, Mycroft drained the rest of his tea before packing everything back up, and heading for the door.

\-------

"Take one of these pills, twice a day with food for ten days. That should clear up your sinus infection, Mrs. Werner. If the symptoms haven’t cleared by then or if they get worse in the interim, please come back as soon as possible."

The elderly woman seated on his exam table gave him her thanks, finally sounding convinced by his diagnosis. John Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration once the office door clicked shut behind her. That had been his third patient in the last two days who had come in with an obvious sinus infection, all of them absolutely convinced they were more suffering from some strain of exotic flu. Could paranoid sinus infections be developing into an epidemic? And why did none of them believe him when he promised repeatedly that they weren't actually infected with bird flu? Had the talking heads on the news been spreading fear of that again, talking about how 'simple' it would be for it to jump species? And most importantly, why was John's patience level for this kind of patient non-existent these days?

_You know other people are idiots, John,_ Sherlock’s voice drawled in the back of his head.

“Leave me alone, you nutter” John muttered, his eyes closing in an attempt to ease the tension headache brewing in his skull. When reception didn't immediately buzz him to come get his next patient, John checked his computer, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips when it showed that he had a short break before the next one. Grabbing his phone out of the pocket of his jacket from where it hung on a hook behind the door, John headed down the hallway towards the little break room to grab a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit or two. A loud coughing fit followed by a noise that sounded suspiciously like vomiting made John wince as he passed a coworker’s office; he was profoundly relieved that hadn't been his patient. No matter what how hard someone scrubbed or what cleaners they used, the smell of vomit always lingered for days.

Pushing open the break room door, John was relieved to find it empty. The doctors and nurses he worked with were all friendly and genuinely nice people, but he was more than a little tired of being their main topic for gossip. Since both he and Mary worked here, it was only natural, he supposed, for his coworkers to be fascinated by their ongoing drama. He was just extremely tired of overhearing them avidly discussing his and Mary’s life when they thought he was out of earshot. True, it had only been three weeks since their reconciliation, but that didn't stop John from wishing for a nice, juicy celebrity scandal to take the focus off his marriage, even for just a little while.

Thumbing on his mobile, John found a text from Mary reminding him that she was meeting up with a friend tonight. He sent a quick response, telling her to have a good time without him, sighing as he remembered why she was on her own. Mrs. Hudson had called yesterday. She had invited him over for tea and John just hadn't been able to say no. He still felt guilty when he remembered how hurt she had been by the way he had stayed away after Sherlock’s apparent suicide. That wasn't the only reason he had accepted the invitation, however. Deep down, he was looking forward to spending an evening away from the tension at home.

John had meant what he had said to Mary on Christmas Day, in the cozy parlor of Sherlock’s parent’s cottage. What Mary had done before they had met wasn't his problem or his concern. He understood that she didn't want to or couldn't talk about what she had done before moving to London five years ago. He couldn't blame her for that; there were aspects of military life that he had never told her, either, things he had done while deployed that he hadn't spoken about to anyone, not even Sherlock or the Major.

But John’s decision not to read that flash drive, to not learn all the secrets of her past, didn't mean he wasn't still livid about the lies she had told him since they had started dating. It was hard to get past the idea that everything she had told him about her life had been a lie. She had known what losing Sherlock the first time had done to him. He had been a hollow shell of a man the first time they had met at the clinic. But even knowing that Sherlock’s death had nearly torn him apart, she had still pointed her gun at the detective and shot him in the chest, all to protect herself. He was willing to bet that had Sherlock not staged that confrontation at Leinster Gardens, she would never have told him that she had been the one to pull the trigger. She had claimed, standing there in that narrow hallway, that she had done it to protect him, that she would do anything to keep him from knowing what had happened in Magnussen’s office. John had heard those words, but they had rung hollow. There had been ways to end that confrontation that didn't include the probability of Sherlock dying on in an operating theatre. Every time those words came back to him, John felt part of his soul shatter a little bit more. She hadn't shot Sherlock to protect John from anything; it had been about shielding him from learning the truth.

The anger brewing inside John was fueling the other emotion that he was struggling under. John was drowning in guilt. John felt guilty that he wasn't any closer to moving past his anger with Mary than he had been in the days leading up to Christmas. Most days, he could barely stand to have more than a two minute conversation with her before the anger would start bubbling up again. There were nights where he laid awake in their bed, next to her sleeping form, and wondered if he had made the right decision on Christmas. In the last few weeks, his anger had made him wonder why he hadn't just walked away. But then there was his child. John loved the baby and he still, somewhere deep inside him, beneath all the anger and guilt, loved Mary. She had rescued him from his downward spiral. He had been drinking every night when they met, using alcohol to suppress the memories of a falling genius, coat fluttering behind him. She had helped him work through his anger and betrayal when Sherlock had shown up in his life again so suddenly. John was sure, if he could just get past his anger, that they could find their way back to each other. He wasn't sure how to do it, but he knew there had to be a way. He had to find a way out from this dark pit of anger before he was smothered in it.

John’s guilt over his anger with Mary, though, was minor compared to the guilt he felt over his inability to act in his own defense. He had been a soldier, for crying out loud; he had stood in front of rebels pointing automatic weapons at his head and not panicked or fled. He had handled the stress of patching up soldiers wounded by vicious IEDs or blown apart by a sniper’s rifle without so much as a pause, but there on that patio, with a newspaper magnet flicking his face, he had been paralyzed, unable to think of anything to get them out of the confrontation. It was his fault that Sherlock had been forced to take drastic measures to end the standoff. Twice now in the last three years, Sherlock had been forced to take decisive action to save him from a threat. The last time, John had almost drowned under the guilt that his harsh words in the lab had led Sherlock to take that last, drastic step off the roof. 

This time, there was no doubt in John’s mind that he was to blame for Sherlock’s exile. If only he had been able to think, to plan, to say something to get the blackmailer to leave them alone. But he had stood there, mouth open like a guppy, getting flicked in the eye by the man destroying everyone he cared about and done nothing about it. His inability to save himself was killing him, a little at a time. He was a soldier, a man of action and yet he had stood there, rooted in the spot, unable to think of a way out. But Sherlock had, yet again, found a solution while John had been a blank. John had been just as surprised as Sherlock that Magnussen’s vault hadn't been a real place, but Sherlock hadn't been frozen there on that patio; he had still been able to find an answer.

The beeping of his mobile pulled John out of his circling thoughts. Looking down at the screen, he sighed as he realized his next patient would be waiting for him. Draining the last of his tea, John headed out of the break room.

Three hours later, John heaved a sigh of relief as he turned off his office light and said goodbye to his boss. His day hadn't improved after his tea break. He used to enjoy listening to his patients, calming their concerns and providing the help they need. But he wasn't finding any joy in all that right now. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to stop himself from asking his last patient why she was being so stupid as he listened to all the reasons she was convinced she was suffering from arsenic poisoning instead of the stomach flu that John had diagnosed.

The tube ride from the clinic to Baker Street didn't help him relax either. For some reason, the train was more crowded than usual. He wasn't sure what was going on, but a small smile drifted across his face as he imagined Sherlock taking one glance at the crowd and deducing everything about them. Shaking his head, John told himself it was time to stop living in the past. If he didn't want to end up like last time, trapped by the shadow of a man in a grave, he needed to figure out a way to remember his time with Sherlock but still move forward with the life he had now.

Heading from the tube station to Baker Street, John felt the tension rising in him, the knot forming in his stomach. The last time he had been here had been Christmas Eve, just before they had left for Sherlock's parents. He had known then that he couldn't abandon Mary, despite the lies and everything else. He hadn't been sure what he would say to her, but as he had stood in the doorway to Sherlock's room, watching the man flit about getting ready, John had been sure of the future. He and Mary would stay together and raise their baby. He was also going to go back to working with Sherlock, cutting back his hours at the clinic. Everything had been so simple and peaceful. The next day had shattered that delusion.

With a start, John realized he had been starting at the door to 221B for at least a minute. He could hear the tinkle of glassware from inside the closed cafe next door; no doubt there was still staff inside, getting everything cleaned and ready for tomorrow. As he pushed open the heavy black door, the smells of the building assaulted his nose. There was the smell of tea from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, combined with the dusty smell of the old building. The smells triggered memories of all the times he and Sherlock had thundered in and out of this door, off on a case or coming back in triumph. His favorite memory, though, was from after Sherlock’s return, standing on the stairs, smoothing over the last of the ruffled feelings from the deception. Sherlock had gifted him with one of his genuine smiles when John had said that he enjoyed fanfare and hoopla. Watching him stop on the way out the door and grab that hat, the one he knew Sherlock still hated, had filled John with an emotion he had struggled to contain. There was pride, yes, as well as joy. But mostly, John had been filled with contentment. His life had felt perfect in that frozen moment in time. His fiancée was upstairs, happily talking with their friends about their upcoming wedding while he had been here, in the familiar foyer, standing next to the most fascinating person he had ever met. 

A noise from the hall drew John out of his memories, and he smiled as he saw Mrs. Hudson standing just outside her door, drying her hands on a towel. She had a wavering smile on her face, looking like she was fighting back tears at the sight of him.

“Hello, dear,” she said, in a slightly wobbling voice. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come on in, everything’s ready.” As they sat at her small kitchen table, John took a close look at Mrs. Hudson, a little worried about the signs of stress that he could see.

“How are you doing? Have you decided what to do with 221B?” he asked, sipping at her excellent tea and pulling a sandwich from the plate she had in the middle of the table.

“My hip has been acting up. Too much stress, I’m sure.” She paused, frowning a little into her tea cup. “I got a letter from Mycroft just after New Year’s, informing me that he would pay the rent on the flat for now. He claimed he didn't have the time to deal with his brother’s possessions.” John frowned, a little puzzled by that. Mycroft wouldn't even have to do the packing up; he has minions for that sort of thing. Mrs. Hudson glanced up in time to catch his frown. “Oh, don’t worry dear,” she continued, pretty obviously missing the real source of John’s confusion. “He did the same thing last time, claiming he couldn't deal with Sherlock’ effects at the time.” 

John gave her a weak smile before faking an intense interest in his tea. What was Mycroft planning? Obviously, last time he had kept up the rent since he knew Sherlock was coming back home eventually. Was there something similar in the works this time? Was it possible that Sherlock’s exile wasn't as permanent as they had let on? But now wasn't the time to ponder that riddle; it wasn't something he could discuss, even with Mrs. Hudson, without risking exposing what had really happened at Christmas.

“I’m glad you don’t have to rush out and find someone new to rent it, Mrs. Hudson,” John finally replied as he finished off his first sandwich. “Giving it time, letting the general public forget about Sherlock Holmes before finding new tenants seems like a good idea.”

“I know, dear. I thought about asking if you and Mary would consider moving in, but there’s really no way to make it suitable for a family. It’s just not big enough.” She sighed. John admitted it was a tempting idea. He was far fonder of Baker Street than the suburbs where he currently lived. But she was right, 221B was no place for a baby. Not only was it too small for a family, several rooms would probably have to be gutted after some of Sherlock’s experiments that gone wrong.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant haze of food, conversation and crap telly. For a little while, anyway, John was able to put his emotional issues aside and enjoy himself in the company of his former landlady. As he left, John marveled that it had been the most relaxing evening that he could remember having in the last few months. Smiling, he shrugged his coat collar up against the cold and walked to the tube station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next update should happen sometime next weekend. 
> 
> Comments and feedback are always welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**January 25, 2014**

This sofa was not his sofa. His sofa, back in Baker Street, would perfectly contour to his body within two minutes of sinking down onto it. This old, worn sofa, however, was completely hopeless. There was just no way that Sherlock could position himself on it that would allow him to maximize his mental capacity. It was too short, too lumpy, and he was trying very hard to not identify the odor coming from one of the cushions. But he needed to think and this was his only truly viable option. The safe house in Rostov-on-Don certainly didn't have room for any more sofas, even if he could acquire one he liked, and lying on the floor was definitely not an option. Sherlock might not have the highest standards for cleanliness, but the worn wood floor in this house was past even his tolerance. Furthermore, the only spot on the floor that was big enough for his body was directly in the path of the front door, which was certainly not ideal with another person living in the house with him.

The lack of his favorite furniture was not the only irritant that Sherlock was currently dealing with. He was also highly frustrated by the lack of progress he and Maks were making on this mission. They had been here for a couple of weeks now and the only leads they had been able to develop had all turned into dead ends very quickly. The Russians had a history of being distrustful of strangers, it was true, but tensions in the city felt like they were currently running at Cold War levels. Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn't figure out if the tension in the citizens was because of worries over the Olympic Games or if there was another, more worrisome cause behind the city’s mood.

All anyone in town seemed to be talking about was the Winter Distractions, as Sherlock had dubbed the upcoming Olympic Games. The international scrutiny down in Sochi was growing. Local government officials were clearly worried that if anything went drastically wrong, Putin would decide that they were to blame. It wasn't an unfounded fear after all. The Distractions were Putin’s showcase pantomime, designed to prove two distinctly separate goals. First, he was trying to demonstrate that Russia was just as cultured and advanced as any other industrialized nation. Putin appeared anxious to prove to potential allies that Russia was no longer the social and economic backwater that Western countries peddled in their propaganda. The second goal was to send an internal message to his citizens and supporters. Putin was out to prove that he alone was in charge. Unfortunately, the Western government officials and journalists were unearthing stories of bomb plots and other threats on a fairly consistent basis that were causing great concern and potential embarrassment for the Russians. That scrutiny, when combined with the ongoing human rights groups that were focusing on Russia’s latest social programs, were creating the impression that Putin’s grasp on the reins of power might not be quite as stable as he would like to pretend. Therefore, the Games were an opportunity to demonstrate primarily to his own people, but also the rest of the world, that he was completely in control of his country.

All these factors were building up to create what might be the perfect smoke screen for far grander ambitions. The world was focused on Black Widow bombers, persecuted homosexuals, and someone called The Flying Tomato. Throw in a couple of minor bomb explosions a month or so ago and the world was captivated by fake drama, leaving Putin free to work on his real agenda. It was an ideal atmosphere to start working on something bigger. But the question they couldn't answer was what was Putin planning? Finding people with concrete information was proving frustratingly difficult. This was a large city with a sizable government presence. There were a lot of people here with vague connections to important people; those people were usually the easiest to bleed for information. Personal cooks, gardeners and drivers were Sherlock’s favorite sources to mine for information on minor level government bureaucrats. But none of these potential sources seemed to be talking. Of course, everyone was on their guard, being extra vigilant in case something happened and the Winter Distractions were interrupted as a result. No one was willing to risk being an even a small part of the reason Russia was embarrassed by something that happen at their Games. He could only hope that as the Distractions got closer, excitement would start to overrule the people’s ingrained sense of caution and more information would become available.

Sherlock flopped around on the sofa, trying once again to find a comfortable position. Lysenko was out working his sources in the town. Annoyingly, Maks was having slightly more success than he was when it came to gathering intelligence. He hadn't found out any major information either, but a few of his contacts had hinted at heightened military activity further to the south. The information provided wasn't specific enough to indicate the motive behind the activity, but it was their only real hint that something abnormal might be going on in the region. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from feeling a bit envious that Maks had uncovered information that he hadn't been able to. He knew it was an immature reaction on his part, but if he was honest, he was slightly jealous of the other man’s success in an area where he was struggling. It was as if there was more than a cultural barrier separating him from the locals. Not only had he been completely unable to find what he needed to know, Sherlock was also having trouble convincing the locals to even talk to him. Even the brutally short haircut and wearing clothes that would blend in easily to his Homeless Network wasn't helping him blend into crowds of ordinary Russians or convince citizens to talk to him.

_Maybe it's the constant air of condescension_ drifted through his subconscious in voice of his absent flatmate.

Sherlock growled in frustration. When would the ghost of John start to leave him alone? He was finding it most irritating that an echo of John seemed to have taken up residency in his brain. He really could use the real John here; he needed someone to help him sort through the mess of patterns and voids in the data and make it snap into shape. Maks was more tolerable than most; he was definitely several steps above Anderson, but he still didn't focus Sherlock’s thoughts the way that John did. Sherlock needed John here to do what he had done so often back in London: ask that one stupid question that would crystallize everything he had struggling with into focus.

The sound of the front door opening roused Sherlock from his mental grumblings. He arched his back to look at the door behind him just as Maks entered the house, an irritated look splashed across his face. That expression had Sherlock vaulting off the couch and heading over to meet him. Normally, the other agent did an excellent job of hiding his emotional state; it was one of the reasons that he made such a successful intelligence operative. Something serious must be going on to make him drop his facade.

"What's happened?" he asked urgently.

"Three high-ranking officials have left town today. One was a City Planner while the other two were senior financial officials. All of them were scheduled to be at the opening for the Games. They were supposed to leave next week for Sochi and stay there for most of a month. However, around 11 o’clock this morning, all of them began cancelling their appointments for the next week. The officials all left town within an hour of each other and their household staffs are currently packing up," Maks answered, tossing his parka in the direction of a dilapidated arm chair.

Sherlock felt a spark of excitement light in his stomach. Finally, they had a concrete lead to investigate. After weeks of searching for shadows, they had finally stumbled on something solid. Even in this more modern, slightly more liberated Russia, three government officials just didn't pack and up leave unexpectedly in that short of a time frame. Russia might not be mired in the high tension and secrecy of the Cold War any longer, but some things hadn't changed all that much. Freedom of movement was one of the areas that was lagging behind the rest of the world, even for government officials.

"Could there be something happening down in Sochi that caused them to leave, rather than whatever it is that is happening with Ukraine and Crimea?" Rostov had been caught up in a high-pitched excitement for the Games since well before their arrival, especially since there was a higher concentration of government officials and powerful businessmen living here. Trying to manipulate a conversation away from the Games and onto other matters had proven almost impossible.

"That can’t be ruled out. Neither of us have been paying attention to the various stories out of Sochi. Maybe Putin is getting frustrated by the lack of progress on the hotels and venues. The possessions being packed weren’t anything out of the ordinary; they weren't taking the entire contents of their homes, for example. The biggest flag here is that three of them all left on short notice and a week earlier than planned."

"So what do you suggest?" Sherlock asked as his mind tried to hurriedly fit this new information into the existing puzzle.

"I have some sources inside the removal companies typically used by the government and leading businessmen," Maks answered, the usual disgust at the leaders of Russia slipping into his tone. "I put out a few feelers on my way back just now. They should report back in a day or so as to the destination and scale of the moves. We should probably follow if they go south."

"We should probably plan on going south anyway," Sherlock interjected, his mind still racing with possibilities and plans. "I think it’s more likely that the people who left are heading down to Sochi, but it’s looking like we have tapped every resource we can here and found almost nothing. I mean, if all the people who can give information are gone, there isn't much point lingering here any longer than necessary."

"I don't think they are all leaving, but I agree that we are reaching the limits of what we can discover here. Give me two days to get whatever information the removal company sources can provide and to send new contact information back to Nikov and the others before we move out. Are you still thinking we should go to Temryuk?"

Sherlock nodded. "That still seems like the most plausible area to investigate next. All the rumors we have heard about troop movements say that they are centered east of there and the city is at a crossroads for people heading towards the Crimean Peninsula." Maks paused for a few minutes, obviously doing some heavy thinking while Sherlock paced, his rapid footsteps matching the speed his thoughts were racing through his head. It would be extremely helpful if they could figure out what had triggered the officials to leave. This could be a crucial piece of the puzzle - or it could be a complete waste of time.

“This feels like it could be a gigantic trap,” Sherlock thought out loud, hoping that articulating his thoughts would help organize them. “I’m tempted to just chalk up these men leaving to the events happening near the Games, especially since one of the people who left is a city planner. Financial officials could go be useful in either situation, but why would a planner be needed for a potential military operation?”

"I don't know. I couldn't pick up anything from the people packing the houses. There was a lot of shouting and talking going on, but all of it concerned why things hadn't been loaded already and where specific items were. There wasn't anything else really being discussed that I could hear." Sherlock growled, so tired of the gigantic gaps in their collected intelligence. "I tend to agree that this feels like it could be a waste of time, but I am going to go back and try to get close to the house of the most senior official while we wait for the contacts to get back. Maybe they’ll grow less cautious as the stress from this mad rush catches up with them."

"I'm coming with you. I can cling to shadows as well as anyone. This way we can watch two of the three houses at once, give us a better chance of hearing something useful.” Sherlock wasn't going to be left standing on the sideline here for this. Lysenko was a good agent but he still didn't observe everything. The fact that Sherlock was having trouble blending into the locals wasn't going to be a liability in this situation. Maks paused for a minute before nodding and grabbing up his coat again. Together, they slipped out of the house, pulling their coats up to keep out the cold.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the center of town, near the well-kept neighborhoods where the wealthy and well-connected tended to live. The golden domes of the largest cathedral glittered in the late afternoon sunshine not too far to the south. Leaving the car a few blocks away, Maks and Sherlock headed towards their target houses, dodging amongst the rush hour crowds on the sidewalk. Since it was the end of the work day, the pavement was crowded with people hurrying towards their evening activities. The crowds made it easier for Sherlock and Maks to approach the first house feeling confident that they had escaped notice by anyone who might be watching out for outsiders.

They were just slipping up a small side street, the taller houses in this section of town casting shadows over the whole street, when Sherlock turned to Maks to ask about the distance between the three target houses.

“A couple of blocks. They scatter their important government residences somewhat; it tends to make it more difficult to target them in an attack or with a bomb.” Sherlock grunted. With all the safeguards Mycroft had to follow back home, especially in regards to his living arrangements, he couldn't say he was surprised that similar restrictions were imposed here. Maks signaled to stop, jerking his head in the direction of a house halfway up the next block. Sure enough, there was a large van parked on the street, its rear door wide open and what looked like half the contents from the house shoved haphazardly in the back. There were several people scurrying back and forth from the back of the van to the house, carrying out an assortment of boxes and wrapped items.

Sherlock’s frown grew deeper as they watched. They couldn't tell what was in the boxes, obviously, but the wrapped items didn't look very suspicious. It was just the timing and the scale of this move that was making them question it. After all, one government official moving in a hurry wasn't even worth reporting. Two might raise an eyebrow, but three, all at the same time, just over a week before the start of a major international celebration like the Olympic Games, was just too coincidental to ignore.

And the universe, after all, is rarely so lazy.

\---

Two days later, Sherlock’s frustration was reaching critical levels. Their surveillance efforts had been completely fruitless. The officials still hadn't been seen in town and packing had continued at a frantic pace throughout that first night. The trucks had departed by dawn the next morning, but unfortunately Maks’ sources inside the removal men were being tight-lipped. Sherlock had overheard Maks on his mobile, cursing as he kept getting the runaround from his sources.

They were still planning on leaving today. It was becoming patently obvious that the information they needed just wasn't in the city any more, if it ever had been. This was one of the gateway cities into Russia; how this place could be completely devoid of the information Sherlock needed was baffling. The government had a large presence here usually. But the absence of the three key officials combined with the preoccupation in the Olympics and the accompanying migration south had rendered this stop practically worthless.

Sherlock paced in the tiny kitchen of the house, keeping an eye out for Maks as he went through the few, sparse facts they had managed to acquire. The other man was out on a last sweep of his sources. With so much to figure out and their safe window before the end of the Games dwindling down, it was critical that they not miss anything. Sherlock was tempted to leave the other man here so they could investigate two areas at the same time. But he knew Lysenko would never agree to that and any attempt to sneak off on his own just yet would be met with great disapproval and possible repercussions, not only from Maks but possibly from Nikov or Mycroft as well.

Dawn was just breaking when the door creaked open and Maks poked his head into the tiny house. A quick shake of the head let Sherlock know that he hadn't learned anything new.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice slightly more gravelly than usual thanks to the combination of little sleep and high levels of stress.

“Lay on, MacDuff.” Sherlock replied as he grabbed his coat and headed out into the cold, crisp morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! I hope people are enjoying this story. As always, all feedback is welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**January 28**

John sank down in the corner booth at his local pub, smiling as he soaked in the bustling atmosphere. The place was fairly crowded tonight, with most of the crowd gathered at the other end of the bar yelling at a football match on the telly. John didn't know which teams were playing, but judging by the bellowed obscenities, the match wasn't going the way the crowd wanted. Another round of jeering erupting in the room brought a small smile to his face as he raised the pint glass in front of him. It felt good to be doing something that was so ordinary. He hadn't met up with anyone for a pint in what felt like ages. So when Greg had called earlier today and asked if he wanted to go out tonight, John had jumped at the chance.

Relations between Mary and himself were still extremely tense at home and it didn't look like they were going to improve any time soon. Conversations between them were still rare and extremely stilted; the only subjects they could manage to talk about these days were her health and the baby. For the most part, this was necessitated by a warning they had received at Mary’s last doctor appointment. Unfortunately, Mary was starting to show some signs of distress that were brought on by the pregnancy. Doctor Wyatt had ordered bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy, with the warning that if her blood pressure or potassium levels kept rising, they would have to induce labor. She had also given strict instructions that Mary should keep calm and relaxed as much as possible. 

As a result, John had spent the last week and a half walking on eggshells around the house. He hadn't raised his voice or brought up any of the events that had led to the fissures in their relationship. Mostly they talked about how she was feeling and what was happening with the baby. But suppressing the problems in their lives certainly didn't make them go away. John felt like he was drowning in isolation. He was rarely physically alone, but he was feeling a bit like a traveler stuck in a foreign land, the only person who couldn't speak the language. There wasn't a single person he felt like he could talk to about any of the events that had torn his life apart over the last six months.

“Oi, you tosser!” A chorus of loud shouts and curses from the crowd at the bar pulled John from his thoughts and a sigh escaped from his lips. Part of the reason he decided to come to the pub tonight was to distract himself from the mess in his life. Looking over at the people watching the game, John smiled as they threw a few obscene hand gestures at the screen amongst the shouting. The game, obviously, wasn't being played according to their high standards. Draining the last of his pint, John looked up at the door and smiled as he saw Greg fighting his way through the crowd, two full pints in his hands. Sliding into the other side of the booth, Greg slid one of the glasses towards John and raised his in a salute.

“Thanks mate. How are things at the Yard?”

“Busy as always. The seedy underbelly of London is always trying to find new ways to kill each other.” John chuckled, picking up on the bemusement mixed with frustration that underscored Grey’s words

“Had any good serial killers lately? I always liked those.”

Greg gave his own soft chuckle and shook his head. “No, no serial killers. There was a double homicide a week ago that would have been right up Sherlock’s…..” Greg stuttered to a halt, obviously thinking it would be poor form to mention Sherlock’s name right now. He looked guilty for a minute. “Sorry, mate.” John just shook his head, giving Greg a wry smile. 

“No worries.” John took a deep drink of his beer. He wouldn't lie, hearing Sherlock’s name still caused a twang of pain in his chest. But he wasn't going to get mad at Greg for it. He had spent enough time two years ago hiding away from any mention of his flatmate; he was determined not to make that mistake again. “A double is almost as good as a serial killer. Fill me in.”

Greg smiled, noticeably relieved by John’s low-key response. “Two victims, obviously, both shot at fairly close range inside a locked, vacant factory. No obvious point of entry, no forced doors or broken windows. I had the text to Sherlock half composed before I realized what I was doing.” Greg paused to take a drink of his beer, still looking a little uncomfortable as that name slipped once again past his lips. “You’d think that after watching him work for so many years, I’d have picked up some elements of his techniques. But I’m probably a lost cause. But we do have leads, forensics and the like to check. We’re just at that frustrating ‘wait-and-see’ stage right now.” 

John chuckled, he could definitely relate to Greg’s wistfulness. “I think the one trait that I picked up from Sherlock was his impatience. There are days it takes every ounce of restraint I can summon to keep from berating some of the patients who stop at the clinic. Just the other day, there was a woman who spent forty-five minutes trying to convince me that she had arsenic poisoning instead of the flu.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Greg started laughing and John couldn't help joining in before describing the circular argument that had ensued. Greg’s easy laughter only encouraged John, who happily launched into the stories of some of the other frustrating patients he had treated recently. Greg only encouraged him, throwing in a few stories about the mishaps he had witnessed at crime scenes. Complaining about the headaches of their jobs eventually evolved into a spirited argument about the weaknesses of their favorite rugby teams and bemoaning the poor seasons each team was muddling through. 

Finally, John blinked down at his watch and swallowed a curse. It was well past the time he had told Mary that he would be home. 

“Well, mate,” John said, fighting to keep from slurring his words, “I had better be getting home. Don’t want Mary to worry.” The pub was pretty empty now. The football match had ended in defeat at least an hour ago and the crowd of rowdies had filtered out, still muttering and cursing amongst themselves at their club’s failure.

“I hear you. Work is going to be rough in the morning.” Greg took another drink, nearly draining his current pint while eyeing John with a seriousness that hadn't been in his gaze a moment ago. “How are _you_ doing, John? Honestly?”

John sighed, staring into his most-empty glass for a minute. It would be easy to just say ‘I’m good’ and attempt to leave the pub without going into the details. John wasn't big on sharing his feelings, after all. But sitting there, looking at Greg’s face, he decided to be honest for the first time in what felt like ages.

“It’s tough, Greg,” John admitted quietly, trying to figure out what he could say. Mycroft’s warning about what could happen if he told anyone the full details about what had happened at Christmas still loomed over his head. “I miss him. I thought it would be easier this time, you know, since I got to say goodbye and everything, unlike last time. But it hasn't been any easier, really.” A quick glance up at Greg revealed that the DI was staring down in his beer. Somehow that made it easier for John to bare a bit of his soul. “Things are still so tense between Mary and I, and it’s just contributing to the idea that everything just feels wrong. I miss him, somehow even more than last time. And it’s not just for the crime scenes, chases and adrenaline fixes that I’m missing. I miss him because as mad as it sounds, as much as he always wanted to pretend us ordinary mortals were all so foreign to him, he made me feel not so alone in the world.” John fell silent, still staring down at the table, afraid he had said too much.

Greg just sat there on the other side of the table, letting the silence grow between them. John risked a glance up, meeting those kind brown eyes. There was an echoing sadness in their rich, brown depth that eased the knot in John’s chest just a little. “No, I get it,” Greg finally said, his soft voice barely audible, even in the now-quiet pub. “He was … is ... a force of nature. Never met anyone quite like him. So many times he came to my aide, helped me put dangerous criminals behind bars when I had next to nothing to go on.” John watched Greg for a moment; he seemed to be struggling with something, unsure whether or not he should bring something up. “Look,” he said finally, “you remember how I told you in Baker Street during that first fake drug bust that with any luck, Sherlock would one day be a good man, not just a great one?” John nodded, a smile creeping onto his face as he remembered the madness of those first crazy days in the genius’ shadow. Greg cleared his throat, and John was a bit surprised to see the glisten of moisture gathering in the corner of his eye. “Well, with the risk of sounding sappy, he’s now a good man, John. And it was you who made him want to be more than just his incredible mind”

A pregnant silence fell between the two men. They were the only two people left in the pub, other than the barman, who was wiping down glasses behind the bar, the delicate chink of glassware mixing with his slightly off-key whistling. After a few minutes of silence, John grabbed his mug and raised it up towards Greg. “Here’s to the mad genius. Hope he’s causing havoc somewhere and having a good time. And may he one day come home.” John downed the rest of his pint, missing the sharp look that Greg threw him as he emptied his own glass.

A few minutes later, John and Greg stood, a bit unsteady on their feet, heading to the door. Once outside, the cold air helped clear John’s head; they were only a few blocks from his apartment, so John decided just to walk instead of trying to catch a cab. Lost in his thoughts of his missing friend, John didn't notice the sleek black car that discretely tailed him all the way to his door.

\-------

Greg cursed his headache as he walked into Scotland Yard the next morning. He wasn't a young man anymore; his mirror told him that every morning. He really should stop drinking like he could still bounce back after a couple hours of sleep. Luckily, the city was fairly quiet this morning. They were still waiting for the lab work in the double homicide so he had a few hours to do the never-ending paperwork that came with subpoenaing records and arresting suspects. 

Frowning as his computer slowly booted up, Greg found himself dwelling on John’s odd toast at the pub the night before. John had admitted that he was missing Sherlock, but that wasn't surprising. Mycroft had abducted Greg just after Christmas for a brief meeting, giving what had obviously been a rehearsed and approved story that Sherlock was going to be abroad until further notice, working for MI6. Now, Greg might not be as intuitive as Sherlock but he could still tell when he was being fed a whopper and Mycroft’s story had certainly felt like a tall tale. His main theory was that Sherlock had finally done something that even Mycroft couldn't fully waive away. He had a few ideas about what the mad genius may have done, but certainly nothing he could start investigating. Besides, Mycroft had been explicitly clear: the Met’s involvement was neither necessary nor appreciated, and Greg could tell that drawing attention to the matter would be a serious misstep.

He couldn't talk with John about what had happened either. John was overwhelmed with Mary and the coming baby. He didn't know exactly what had caused their months-long separation, but yet again, he had theories. It was a little too coincidental that immediately after Sherlock’s collapse, John had moved out of their home and back into Baker Street. Oh, he had given the excuse of nursing Sherlock readily enough, but yet again, Greg was really no fool. Mary was somehow tied up in the incident that had led to Sherlock being shot. But yet again, asking questions or digging into the matter was obviously not going to go over well.

The ping of an incoming email yanked Greg out of his thoughts and caused his head to start aching again. He had better grab more coffee and some paracetamol before starting to tackle the mountain of paperwork waiting for him.

It took hours for Greg to catch up on all the paperwork associated with the double homicide investigation. It felt like it had been days. Every time he had started to focus on the papers and been able to tune out his headache, his email or phone would chime and the pain would come rushing back. Just as he was debating if he had time for lunch in the hope that food might help dull the ache, there was a knock at his office door. He looked up to see Sally Donovan lingering in the opening, looking a little hesitant.

"What's up?" Sally gave him a small smile and walked over to his desk, holding what looked like an envelope of photos in her hand. She spread them on his desk, and Greg glanced at them, confused. Most of these were from the scene of the double homicide, but there were a few of other recent crime scenes as well.

"I was looking over the scene photos from the double and I noticed something that looked familiar." She pointed to one of the walls of the factory where the two victims had been found. Squinting down at the photo, it took Greg a minute to figure out what she was pointing at. On the wall adjacent to the bodies was a small bit of graffiti. Greg held the picture under his desk lamp, trying to get a better view of it. He frowned as the element that had caught Donovan’s attention became clear; there were two words embedded in the tag. _“Miss me?”_ was so subtle that it was easy to dismiss as a graphic element instead of text.

"Now, that factory had a number of tags," Sally continued, pulling out a wider photo from her pile and Greg could see at least four more distinct tags. "But this particular one was almost on top of the two victims. It also looks pretty freshly painted. Now, I know what you're thinking. There's absolutely no reason to think that the art is connected to the homicide. With all that other graffiti around, it could easily just be a coincidence."

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Greg muttered under his breath. He looked up to see a quizzical look on Sally's face. "Sorry, something Sherlock said once. Go on." Greg watched as she fought through her irritation at the mention of Sherlock's name. She might have grudgingly allowed that he had nothing to do with those abducted school children, but she still thought he was a psychopath and had been heard to say several times in the last month that she was enjoying not having _him_ at crime scenes any more. 

"Yes, well, in this case he may have been onto something," she allowed grudgingly. "Once I realized what I was looking it, it triggered something. There was something vaguely familiar about that mark. So I pulled up the photos from all the recent crime scenes I could find, especially those that haven’t been open-and-shut cases. In the past month, that tag or one very similar to it has appeared at four crime scenes that I've identified so far, including the double from last week." She pointed out the tags in the photos from two 'normal' murders and a drug raid. Sure enough, on the walls right near where the major activity of each location was a tag with the words "Miss me?" embedded in them.

"I may not be a 'consulting detective’, sir," Sally concluded, "but it certainly seems like someone is trying to send a message."

Greg pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing his office. There had been nothing obvious to connect these four crime scenes. All the victims had been killed in different ways; the double homicide victims had been shot, while the other two murder victims had been strangled and killed by blunt-force trauma, respectively. Pushing that aside for a moment, Greg turned back to Sally. "Check into any convicts that were released from prison just prior to the date the first message appeared. ‘Miss Me?’ implies someone whom we've had previous dealings with. The graffiti artist could be someone with a grudge about his capture." 

"I checked the parole and release records for the month prior to the first instance. Nothing stood out. There weren't any major criminals or particularly nasty characters released."

Greg thought for a minute. "Start going through the photos from every crime scene that has been processed in the last three months. Be as discreet as you possibly can. It's obviously a message and we need to find out who is going through all this trouble." He continued to pace, before coming to a halt suddenly in front of the windows. Greg had just remembered the first case that Dimmock had worked with Sherlock, that Chinese smuggling case with the spray painted threats that only made sense if you had the right book. Closer inspection of the actual artwork was certainly called for.

"Good work, Sally," Greg said as he grabbed up his phone and jacket. "I'm going to see if the tags are still at those scenes, try to get some information about who painted them if I can. Let me know if you find the tag at any other crime scenes at once. Look for anything that might connect any of these crime scenes as well. Maybe we have an artist trailing crimes, just trying to get attention or these crimes could be organized at a much deeper level than we are seeing right now. I’ll be in touch with what I find."

Greg drained the last dregs of his coffee and grabbed up his coat before heading outside. Striding out of the Yard, Greg felt the weak sunshine on his face as it tried to battle the mid-winter cold and wind. Just as he turned towards where his car was parked, he caught sight of a sleek black saloon parked next to the curb and the car’s driver opened the rear door. Glancing inside the leather-appointed interior, Greg wasn't at all surprised to find Mycroft Holmes sitting in the seat, his umbrella resting in his lap.

“Get in, Detective Inspector. I believe we are on a similar mission.”

“Have the Yard bugged, do you?” Greg asked as he slid onto the white leather seat next to Mycroft and the driver shut the door firmly. There was no point arguing with the man, after all. Mycroft Holmes always got what he wanted. If Greg put up a fuss about joining Mycroft, the driver would have just chucked him inside.

“Nothing as distasteful as that,” came the smooth-as-silk reply. “Your detective’s search parameters simply echoed something one of my agents was looking at. A flag was raised.”

“Getting you to admit to spying would be simpler than calling Sally Donovan off once she’s chasing a lead.” Greg retorted. He needed to know if she needed to be deflected before they infringed on the other agency’s toes. He could just imagine the explosion that would happen if he had to tell her that this wasn't a matter for her attention any more. 

“We’ll see. Depending on a few details, this may soon escalate to well outside her pay grade.” Greg snorted; he wasn't terribly surprised by that reply. Depending on who was leaving the cryptic messages, MI5 could easily be the best option to take over the case. Greg shifted in his seat, remembering his thoughts about John’s comments last night. A quiet sigh escaped from the man sitting next to him.

“Don’t ask, Gregory. There is nothing else I can tell you about Sherlock, no matter what John Watson may have said to you last night.” Greg slumped in his seat at the gentle reprimand. Again, he wasn't surprised that Mycroft knew about his night out with John or that he was aware of Greg’s suspicions concern the nature of Sherlock’s abrupt departure. 

“OK. Just one thing though: I know there is more to this than you are telling me. If there is anything I can do, I’ll be glad to help, even if it’s in an off-the-record capacity or something as simple as keeping John company, just like I did two years ago after Sherlock’s first disappearance.” Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable at the reminder of what The Fall had done to John, but nodded his understanding as the car pulled to a halt. 

It took several hours to check the four crime scenes Sally had identified. Even Mycroft Bloody Holmes had to deal with the realities of London traffic, after all. The tags were all still there, and they had clearly been painted by the same artist, at least to Greg’s untrained eye. They varied slightly from location to location, like variations in a symphony, the same basic elements but in a different key each time. 

Finally, Greg and Mycroft stood at the scene of the drug raid. This was the last of the scenes they were investigating. Sally had texted half an hour ago with the news that she hadn't found any more tags. Mycroft stood to the side, watching dispassionately as Greg scraped a bit of the paint into an evidence bag. They had collected samples from each location, hoping to confirm that the same types of paint had been used on each one.

“So is this now out of the Met’s hands?” Greg asked, turning to see what other changes had happened in the abandoned warehouse since the original crime scene photographs had been taken. Life had continued for the people who used these buildings; there were fresh footprints in the dust and a new stack of debris in one of far corners. Greg walked over to take a look at it, slightly curious about what illicit activities took place when the police weren't here. A feeling a dread settled over him as he nudged the dilapidated boxes out of the way; hiding behind them was another tag, which was obviously more recently painted than the one he had just examined on the other side of the room. 

“Mycroft, come take a look at this.” Greg called, the thud of his heart stuttering wildly in his chest. The soft footsteps of the taller man came up behind him slowly, followed by the catch of breath as the new tag came into view. Greg turned and saw the same startled look in the Mycroft’s eyes. 

The new tag read _I.O.U. S.H._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! I'm thrilled at the response this story is getting. Any feedback is welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

Greg turned towards Mycroft from where he knelt on the floor and watched as the shock he was feeling spread across the other man’s features. Mycroft had stopped a few steps away, his body caught in a sharp ray of late afternoon sunshine that was streaming in through one of the broken windows that dotted the wall they were examining. The bright beam of light only served to highlight the range of emotions laid bare on the other man’s face. It was mostly shock, but there was a hint of a deeper, fiercer emotion bubbling just under the surface; it he was pressed, Greg guessed he would call the emotion tinging the edges of Mycroft’s face anger. He turned slowly back towards the wall, trying to gather his thoughts so he could begin to investigate this latest twist. As his ability to reason returned, a full gamut of theories started flooding through his brain, each possibility more improbable than the last. There was only one certainty in this whole mess, as far as Greg was concerned; he was willing to be his badge that none of this was a coincidence.

Greg honestly couldn't remember the last time he had been thrown for this big a loop at a crime scene. Shaking his head to help clear the confusion fogging his brain, he gathered himself enough to remember basic protocol. Pulling his phone from pocket, he took a few pictures of the new tag. He was absolutely sure that it hadn't been present in the photos that Donovan had shown him earlier that afternoon. On that thought, Greg gave the rest of the walls a thorough visual inspection, noting several other tags that dotted the walls at various intervals. None of them looked like they had been painted recently, but he needed to check the entire building thoroughly, just in case there was anything else they had missed. Pulling a small torch out of his pocket, Greg slowly made his way around the warehouse, making sure to move every piece of debris that hid any part of a wall. It took several minutes to circle the entire building, but none of the other graffiti had been made recently, judging by the faded colors and peeling paint. Greg was no expert, but he was also fairly confident that none of the other tags were painted by the same artist as the Miss Me? or I.O.U. tags.

Greg returned to the main room just in time to see Mycroft ending a call and scowling down at the screen of his mobile. As the sound of footsteps announced his return, Mycroft pulled his eyes away from the screen and turned his attention back to Greg. The other man’s mask was mostly back in place, although Greg could still see some of his shock in the lines around his eyes. Greg took a deep breath, deciding that it was time to raise the subject of Mycroft’s absent brother, who was quite obviously related in at least a peripheral way to all these incidents. 

"These tags aren't from Sherlock, are they?" he asked, studying Mycroft’s face sharply as he frowned and gave a small shake of his head. The sigh that escaped from the other man was almost too quiet to be heard. Greg could see the growing tension in his face, but felt the need to keep pushing for more information. "So who are they from?” he asked, the strain of the situation bringing a slight edge to his voice. Mycroft's frown sharpened until his expression turned into a scowl before abruptly turning on his heel and walking quickly towards the exit. A stiff jerk of his head indicated that he was to follow. Greg swallowed down a retort about the man’s arrogance and followed him out of the building. Neither man spoke while they walked swiftly towards the side street where Mycroft's car was waiting. 

"The Diogenes Club, Henry," Mycroft said to the driver. After sliding the privacy partition closed, Mycroft finally turned to face Greg. "My apologies for our abrupt departure, but there was no guarantee that the building didn't have ears, despite its apparent lack of occupants." Greg scowled at his lap for a minute, disappointed that he hadn't made the observation himself. That last piece of graffiti had really scrambled his instincts. Whoever had placed those tags certainly could have bugged the warehouse or been keeping an eye out for anyone investigating the crime scene. It was safe to assume that both Mycroft and himself were fairly well known amongst certain sections of the criminal populace. Discretion was definitely the wisest course of action, especially given the apparent connection between what he had previously been treating as individual crimes. As the car started to make its way through the end of day crush on the streets of London, the silence stretched between the two men, both lost in their own thoughts and theories about what they had found. Neither of them spoke until sometime later, several minutes after they were safely ensconced in one of the private salons on the first floor of the club. 

"I appreciate your patience, Gregory," Mycroft began once they were seated in identical wing back chairs, each nursing a cup of tea. 

"No, it’s my fault. I should have realized that the warehouse could hardly qualify as secure." Greg paused, still trying to gather his racing thoughts into cohesive sentences. "Those tags aren't from your brother." He made it a statement this time, rather than a question, but Mycroft answered nonetheless.

"No. Sherlock is still embedded in Russia, according to the daily reports I've been receiving."

"Russia?" Mycroft shot him an impatient look at the outburst, but Greg spluttered on. He was being fixed with that expression the Holmes brothers had both perfected, the look that said a person was displaying less intelligence than an average garden snail. "I knew he was out of the country; but Russia? With everything that's going on there, isn't it a bit dangerous?"

"My brother was aware of the potential dangers before he accepted this mission."

"Don't give me that diplomatic bullshit." Greg retorted, more than a bit tired of the other man speaking in riddles and platitudes. "We both know Sherlock didn't go on this mission by choice. And no, no one told me that.” Greg couldn't help the tone of disgust that had crept into his voice as he voiced his frustrations to the other man. “I know both you and your brother think the rest of us are all idiots, John Watson being the possible exception. But I didn't get the job of Detective Inspector because I was completely stupid or oblivious. I may not be able to deduce a crime scene minutes after I arrive at it, but I'm still very good at my job. So do me the honor of respecting my capabilities and dropping the double-speak." Mycroft was silent for a minute after Greg finished. He just sat in his chair, waiting for the other man; he doubted that anything he had said had surprised the other man into speechlessness. Mycroft was obviously deciding how much he was going to reveal.

"I apologize, Gregory.” Mycroft finally answered, in an obviously conciliatory tone. “Both my brother and I are aware of your strengths and abilities, despite apparent evidence to the contrary. It isn't by accident, after all, that you are the only person at Scotland Yard with whom we voluntarily collaborate." Greg sat back, rendered almost speechless. He had never heard the elder Holmes speak so openly in praise of another person before. A soft sigh echoed across the room as Mycroft continued. "Many of the details surrounding my brother's departure are, understandably, highly classified. Additionally, your status as Detective Inspector does tie my hands somewhat."

"You mean whatever caused Sherlock’s abrupt departure was so illegal that not even you could make it disappear?" Greg ventured, finally putting his theory from earlier that morning into words. Mycroft raised his eyebrow, the only indication he would ever give that Greg's suspicions contained more than a little truth. After a sigh of his own, Greg continued hesitantly, unsure of how far he should push for details. "Look, I know there’s a great deal of information that you cannot tell me for one reason or another. And I accept that. But these tags are clearly involved with your brother, even if he didn't place them or commission someone to paint them for him."

"It certainly appears that way," Mycroft acknowledged. "The latest tag is by far the most troubling. A simple ‘Miss Me?’ could be related to an almost infinite number of criminals or scenarios. I'm sure, for example, that you've checked to see if there have been any significant releases from prison dating just prior to the first crime scene with that tag." Greg nodded, not surprised their first instincts had been the same. "But the addition of the I.O.U. tag is highly suspicious."

"You mean because of the apparent connection to James Moriarty." Again, Greg made it a statement rather than a question. Mycroft looked up at him sharply, apparently taken aback at Greg’s knowledge about the events that had led to his brother’s apparent suicide. "It was something John told me after Sherlock's return.” Greg explained with a shrug. “There were three I.O.U.s that Moriarty had planted around Baker Street and Scotland Yard just before that final showdown on Bart's rooftop. That was how Sherlock knew how many assassins there were and who Moriarty had targeted." Mycroft nodded, but still looked a little surprised. The two men were silent for another minute, each lost in remembrances of those last frantic days before Sherlock’s faked suicide.

“So, I guess it’s safe to say this is officially out of the Yard’s jurisdiction?” Greg finally ventured, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“What do you have your people doing?” 

“Right now, I just have Sargent Donovan going through all the crime scene photos she can access quietly to see if there are more ‘Miss Me?’ tags.”

“Have her keep searching for now. The Yard, I believe, is better equipped for spotting any additional tags. But just pass on any locations to me to investigate.” Greg nodded. “Also, I will leave you in charge of the investigations for the crimes themselves, while I turn my resources to discovering what connects them.”

“Should I alert the other DI’s to keep an eye out?”

Mycroft thought for a few minutes before answering. “No. Too many people involved in the investigation could end up raising interest in a few sections that I would prefer to remain in the dark for the time being. I want to keep this as quiet as possible, at least until we can uncover the extent of what we are facing. I’d like you to personally keep an eye out on future crime scenes and report anything you find back to me or my assistant directly.”

“Of course,” Greg paused for a minute, before another question occurred to him. “Could these tags have been done by Moriarty himself or at his explicit instruction?” Mycroft sighed and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, in what Greg instantly recognized as Sherlock’s thinking pose. It was at times like this that the similarities between the brothers really became apparent. Greg let the silence stretch, wondering if the other man would give a real answer or try to deflect his attention. 

“It’s been kept quiet,” Mycroft finally answered, in a quieter tone of voice than he usually used. “James Moriarty never left the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s.” Greg frowned, not following. Mycroft sighed and Greg bristled a bit. The Holmes’ brothers only ever gave fragments of information and then inevitably became exasperated when mere mortals couldn't follow their train of thought. It wasn't his fault their trains of thought operated at the speed of expresses while Greg’s lumbered along at the pace a simple freight train.

“Moriarty’s goal was to completely discredit Sherlock and force him to commit suicide in disgrace, using the danger to his friends as the leverage needed to achieve his goal. During their final confrontation, Sherlock threatened to force Moriarty to call off the assassins. So Moriarty called his bluff; shooting himself through the mouth to remove the last safety net that Sherlock could have used to avert disaster. That left Sherlock with no choice but to complete Moriarty’s power play, even though he did cheat a bit in the end.”

“Couldn't Moriarty have done the same thing, faked his own suicide?”

“I suppose anything is possible. But in this case, it is highly unlikely. I personally supervised the removal of the body from the rooftop, the autopsy and the subsequent burial in a highly secretive and guarded permanent storage facility.”

“I assume that you are going to be exhuming that body to make sure it really is James Moriarty?” Mycroft’s only answer was a look that should have evaporated Greg on the spot. A soft chuckle escaped his lips; making the suggestion had been more his own benefit than to actually suggest that it was something Mycroft Holmes hadn't considered doing. Yet again, silence stretched between the two of them. He would never admit it aloud, but Greg was relieved that Mycroft’s department would be spearheading the graffiti investigation. His brain was aching with what little he knew; he hated to think how many bizarre twists and turns this case would take before they had answered every question. 

“Is there anything else I should know before I return to the office?” Greg asked as he put his empty tea cup down on a side table and started to get ready to leave the club.

“No, thank you Gregory.” Greg stood up, nodded at Mycroft and headed towards the door. Just as he was about to open it though, Mycroft cleared his throat. Greg turned back to look at him, his hand still clasped on the doorknob. “Actually, there is one thing. Keep looking out for John Watson. I would hate to have to tell Sherlock that something happened to him.” Greg nodded again as he left the room.

Half an hour later, Greg is back at his office, sitting across his desk from an irate-looking Sally Donovan. Her reaction to the development in the graffiti investigation had been exactly what he expected.

“What do you mean, not in our hands?” She was almost shouting in her frustration at this latest development.

“Look. I can’t tell you much. Things got a lot more complicated at one of the crime scenes that made this situation one of a much more … sensitive … nature. Have you found anything at any of the other crime scenes you looked at?”

“No. Not all of them had photos of the full scene, but from what I could see, there haven’t been any of these tags at them.”

“Good.” Greg paused for a minute, but he couldn't think of anything else she could look for that wouldn't raise concerns or draw too much attention to what was going on. He can’t even tell her what it was that pushed this up the security ladder. She’d be furious to hear that Sherlock was even loosely tied to it. It would be better to shift her attention back to things she could actually work on, difficult as that might be. “Did anything else develop on the double?”

Donovan sighed, her anger still a tangible presence in the room, but finally took the hint. Greg could still hear the low-burning anger in her voice, but over the next 30 minutes, it gradually faded out and the competent police sergeant returned as they talked through the evidence. They were still a long way from solving this latest murder.

\----

Mycroft sat in his chair at the Diogenes Club, eyes fixed on one of the cream-coloured walls of the room for at least ten minutes after the thick wood door had closed behind the Detective Inspector. He could feel the shock from the discovery of that last tag still dragging at the usually well-organized spaces of his mind. It was unusual, to say the least, for his mind to be rendered blank; normally, twists and discoveries in a situation stimulated his brain. This was the first time that he could recall where an unexpected twist had completely derailed his thought process.

It took almost half an hour after Lestrade’s departure before Mycroft felt like his brain had finally caught up with what had occurred this afternoon. He swallowed another sigh as his mental processes finally reengaged and the possibilities of the current situation began to play out inside his head. Could the Consulting Criminal have faked his own death? It didn't seem likely. Mycroft had arrived on the roof within three minutes of Sherlock’s jump, once he had confirmed that his brother had been whisked away from Doctor Watson and into the bowels of the hospital. When he had arrived on the roof, Moriarty’s body had been located precisely where it should have been, a scarlet puddle growing beneath his head, obviously spreading from the hole on the top of his head. After his men had secured the rooftop, he had then personally accompanied the body during its removal from the roof and stood guard inside the room while Ms. Hooper had personally verified the identification and confirmed the death. 

It was highly unlikely that Moriarty could have managed to shoot himself through the mouth in a non-fatal way. The angle of the gun would have all but guaranteed that the bullet would do serious damage to his brain on its way through the skull. Mycroft had glanced briefly at the gaping hole in the top of the corpse’s head, just to verify that there was actually a wound. He hadn't tried to examine it himself; medicine had never been an interest of his, so he had left that part in the capable hands of Ms. Hooper. 

Getting to his feet, Mycroft started to pace the small room, trying to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order. Several different possibilities were starting to crystallize. The first, and least likely, was that James Moriarty had somehow managed to fake his death. Sherlock had seemed convinced of his death, though. They had stood less than a meter apart during the end of their battle of wits. The smell of the gunpowder had lingered in the air when Mycroft had arrived minutes later. Of course, Moriarty had been a man of considerable means and connections. If there was a way to convincingly fake a gunshot through the head, the Consulting Criminal would be the one person who would know how to do it. If he could have pulled it off, there would have been ample time to have another body brought up to the roof in those few minutes before Mycroft had emerged on the rooftop. 

Clearly, further tests on the body in long-term storage were called for. Unfortunately, Sherlock had been the only person who could have verified that the angle of the gunshot wound on the corpse matched the gun position in Moriarty’s mouth. But they hadn't been able to risk Sherlock being seen in the corridors of the hospital, nor had there been the time to take the body to Sherlock’s hiding place. There had been so many moving parts that day, which meant that they had needed to bypass some of Mycroft’s natural tendencies to double and triple check every step of a plan. They were obviously paying the price for some of those shortcuts right now. 

Luckily, there were records that they could use to verify the identity of the body currently in long term storage. They had taken saliva and hair samples along with fingerprints while they had held Moriarty in custody for questioning. During Ms. Hooper’s analysis, they had only done visual and fingerprint identification before the body had been locked away, partly due to Ms. Hooper’s personal romantic history with James Moriarty. Clearly, it was time for a more thorough investigation of the body. The scene of the shooting would, of course, have been long since cleared of any residual evidence after almost four years of exposure to the elements, but he would still take a trip up there at the earliest opportunity, just to be sure. Unfortunately, CCTV was not an option here. When they had chosen Bart’s roof as the scene for the final act, part of the reason for it was the lack of cameras, which ensured that the secret of Sherlock’s survival wouldn't have leaked. Of course, if there had been any footage, it would have been deleted long ago; no one kept footage for longer than a few weeks, much less years.

The second possibility, which was a somewhat more likely scenario, was that someone from Moriarty’s criminal network was stepping up into the power void that had been created following Moriarty’s death. It would have to be someone with the knowledge of the inner workings of the criminal’s network, who could use the specter of the dead man to send a message. Sherlock had eliminated all of the major operations during his two years abroad. But there were still operatives alive all over the world that had ties to the web; they hadn't been able to eliminate all of them. It seemed most likely that one of those operatives was planning some type of revenge. Coordinating several different types of crimes required deep resources, however. Maybe they had missed one of the major players during Sherlock’s time abroad. The pieces of the network had been cloaked in shadows, which had made it likely that they could have missed a piece here or there.

Mycroft sighed. Unfortunately, he couldn't put the full force of his department behind this investigation. The need to keep this secret from some of his colleagues was paramount for now. That last tag, the one that tied his brother into the crimes, made the investigation much more complicated. The return of the Consulting Criminal (or even the specter of his return) might be the keystone Mycroft needed to start building his plan to bring his brother home. Once he could prove what was going on behind the scenes in London, he could lean on sympathetic ministers, starting with Lady Smallwood herself, to plant the idea that Sherlock’s specialized skill set was needed back home.

There were many, many steps between where they were now and that point, however. Settling down at the desk, Mycroft pulled out a pad of paper and started to make a list of all the areas he would need to investigate in order to solve this latest mystery. Hopefully, the process of putting his thoughts into writing would help solidify which paths he needed to explore further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! I'm a bit floored by the response to this piece. 
> 
> One quick note about the next update: I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday for my family, so that is going to take up a lot of time this week, between all the cleaning and cooking that needs to be done. I'm hoping to still be able to update this next weekend as usual, but it might be a little late since writing and editing time might be at a premium.
> 
> All comments/feedback are welcome! This fic hasn't been beta'd or britpic'd.


	7. Chapter 7

**February 2**

The stars were bright tonight. Looking up at them, Sherlock sighed, feeling like they were mocking him for noticing such an unimportant detail. Of all the ways he should be using his mental prowess, observations about the perceived luminosity of distant suns could really only be considered a waste of resources. Noticing their brightness wasn't going to help him find the clarity to unravel Putin’s agenda and motivations. But memories of John’s bewilderment of his blatant disinterest in the solar system kept flashing through his mind as he stood outside under the night sky. It was driving him mad. Constant thoughts about how John would react in each situation he found himself in wasn't helpful, but it was a behavior that he just couldn't seem to shake. Shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock turned his gaze back to his immediate surroundings. He was standing in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, not-so-patiently watching the street on either side of his current location and the mouth of the alley across the street. He kept glancing down at the clock on his mobile; a sigh of frustration slipped past his lips. He had arranged to meet up with his newest informants over half an hour ago. It wasn't boding well for their reliability or attention to detail if they were late for their first check-in. Sherlock’s pale, sharp eyes kept flicking down toward his phone then skirting the surrounding buildings, checking the all the sidewalks and alleys before darting back downwards again. He was not pleased at whatever was causing the delay.

Standing here, skulking in the shadows, Sherlock felt his rising stress levels only increased his sense of impending doom. There was an ever-present nagging in the pit of his stomach these days, constantly making him feel like he had missed something important. Sherlock and Maks had arrived in Temryuk a week ago, only to discover few people that could be used as contacts and even fewer leads. Unfortunately, the city wasn’t nearly as large as Rostov, which meant it was harder to remain unnoticed as they continued to search for information. In Sherlock’s experience, the best sources for intelligence were the domestic employees of government and military officials; they were trained to blend into the background as much as possible, so they were often ideally positioned to overhear sensitive information. Unfortunately, the smaller government footprint here ensured that those kinds of sources were extremely limited. They had found only a few people that were in position to overhear sensitive information, but most of them were turning out to be extremely loyal to their employers. With the limited number of opportunities for people to work for the elite in this city, it made sense; there just weren’t that many of these cushy jobs available, so people wouldn’t risk the job they had to help an outsider. In his own region, Maks had proven surprisingly adept at cultivating relationships with locals that most agents would overlook. Unfortunately, none of his established contacts were located this far south; Maks’ main region was closer to Belarus, which was a bustling hive of military and political activity, especially when compared to Temryuk. Adding to his sense of unease, Sherlock was sure that they were running out of time before Putin had all his chess pieces in play. The Winter Distractions were starting in 3 days and they were only fractionally closer to finding out what the Russian leader was aiming to achieve with his posturing and military movements. 

Temryuk was little more than a small town at the center of a crossroads. Historically, it had acted as the gateway to the Russian side of the Strait of Kerch, which was why Sherlock had decided that it was a town that needed investigating. Crossing the Strait was the fastest way to move people or goods from Russia into Crimea. The crossing was only a couple of kilometers wide, an easy entry point for instigators and agitators if Putin was seeking to use the current political unrest in Ukraine to his advantage. It was looking more and more likely that, at the very least, Putin was attempting to exploit the turmoil in the Ukraine. Numerous reports from the troubled peninsula indicated that there had been a noticeable increase in the number of Russian troops stationed in the bases there over the last few months. There was also the distinct possibility that Putin was instructing his agents to instigate tensions with the Ukrainians in order to destabilize the region. 

The main theory that Sherlock was counting on now was the idea that Putin would wait until the Distractions were finished before putting his plans into action. The protests and objections of other governments didn't matter to him, but Putin was counting on the Distractions being successful as a show of his power and sophistication, not only to the rest of the world, but to his own people. The global news for the next three weeks would be full of stories about the heroic deeds of athletes and locals, packaged in shiny graphics and empty platitudes. But once the Games were over, the international attention focused towards Russia would vanish faster than a cake placed in front of Mycroft. By five days after the games, at the absolute latest, most of the world's population wouldn't care what was happening in this corner of the world. Then Putin would be able to move and the West wouldn’t know what was going on until it was too late to do more than protest after the fact. 

The sound of a rock skittering across the pavement in the distance pulled Sherlock from his swirling thoughts. He squinted into the shadows around him, searching for the source of the noise. It wasn't until he saw the two figures emerge from the darkened alleyway directly across the street and start to edge slowly towards his location that Sherlock let himself relax. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief; it seemed his contacts were finally arriving. He looked over the two homeless teenagers he had approached two days before to provide some basic surveillance. Sherlock and Maks had realized shortly after their arrival that there were signs of an unusually high temporary military presence in the vicinity of the town. There were always a few patrols on the port side of the city and at least 3 officers meeting on a daily basis with one or more high-ranking district officials. Sherlock had bribed these two teens to help monitor one of the residences the visiting officers were using while they were in town.

As far as Sherlock could tell, no particular visiting officer was staying in the city for more than a few days. He had taken to tracking the movements of the highest ranking permanently-stationed officer in the city, one Colonel Grigory Polyakov. Spotting and tracking him was almost pathetically easy, especially in a small town like Temryuk. Sherlock was secretly amused at how closely Polyakov resembled the British stereotype of a Russian military officer. Brusque to the point of rudeness, he also possessed a piercing voice, a stubborn chin and eyes that could make young recruits tremble in their boots; he looked like he could have been dropped out of one of John’s beloved Bond movies. 

The noise of the approaching street urchins drew Sherlock’s attention once again. "Yes?" he asked once they had joined him in the shadows of the alley. They were sheltered away from prying eyes, hidden from passersby by the lack of street lights. Offering each a cigarette, he bit back the demand to know what had kept them. He could feel them sizing him up, obviously still trying to decide if they could trust him or if he was an undercover agent for the FSB*. After a minute, they both grinned and leaned towards him in order to get their cigarettes lit. After a few long drags, Sherlock’s impatience finally got the better of him. “Have you managed to find anything relevant?” he demanded, unable to keep the impatience from his voice.

“That lieutenant left town this morning with his two goons,” the older of the two teens informed him. _‘His name is Alexander, Sherlock. You could try to remember it’_ came drifting from the back of his mind in the unhelpfully distracting voice of his former flatmate. Sherlock barely refrained from growling in frustration as he shoved the door closed on that wing of his mind palace. He didn’t need to be distracted right now; he needed to concentrate on what Alexander was telling him. While he was sifting through what the boys were telling him, Sherlock cast an assessing eye over the two teens standing in front of him. Judging by the easy way he moved through the shadows and the harsh lines on his face, Alexander had been living on the streets for at least three years. The second boy, Petr, had latched onto him less than a year ago and was obviously still adapting to his worsened living conditions. “He was headed south east, just like the last one. Told his driver to go to an address, I think in Krasnodar.” Alexander finally finished up. 

“Anything unusual or alarming in his actions? Did he seem stressed, worried or anything like that?” Sherlock asked, as the potential scenarios started to swirl inside his head.

“He didn’t tell his driver to hurry or anything.” Sherlock listened carefully as the boys rambled on, trying to figure out what to ask next in order to focus the boys’ somewhat wandering attention. “The previous officer asked to go to Krymsk, further south that Krasnodar.” Alexander continued on for a few minutes about the differences in the destinations, but Sherlock was only half listening. This lieutenant's behavior fit into the same general pattern as the last few officers to visit the city, but other than general confirmation of a pattern, the information from Alexander and Petr wasn’t particularly helpful. The lack of specific intelligence was the main cause of all of Sherlock’s frustration, which was almost to the point of rendering him insensible. The majority of the information he had managed to obtain since arriving in Russia was of an extremely circumstantial nature; none of it did much to illuminate the core of the mystery he was trying to solve. Temryuk might be a small town, but it was located much closer to the hub of activity than they had been before now. The constant meetings between the mid- and high-ranking officers and the local Colonel only confirmed his theories that whatever was happening was centered on this part of the region. It seemed obvious that those meetings were briefings concerning whatever was being planned. Unfortunately, they were no closer to identifying those plans than he had been when Sherlock had landed in Belarus.

“Keep watching the house. I’ll meet you back here in 2 days at the same time.” he instructed when Alexander finally stopped talking. Handing over the rest of the packet of cigarettes, Sherlock watched as they headed back into the darkness, wincing a little at the amount of noise the two boys were making as they left. Once the boys were out of eyesight, Sherlock moved off himself, headed back to the ramshackle house on the south side of the city where he and Maks were staying. As he walked, clinging to the shadows of buildings as much as possible, Sherlock tried yet again to decipher patterns in what little information he had been able to gather. But the patterns still just refused to crystalize. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that political maneuverings and games weren’t his area of expertise. They came so easily to Mycroft, after all. Why couldn’t he pick them apart as easily as his brother?

Unfortunately, politics shared very little with crime scenes when it came to deductions and motives. A criminal generally had very simple motives: money, revenge, escape, passion, etc. There were a select few of them with the sophistication and vision to act beyond those immediate goals. Magnussen, Moriarty and The Woman all fit that bill and it wasn’t a coincidence that those were the adversaries that had been the most difficult for Sherlock to outwit. He sighed as the ache that thinking about his former life always caused rose in his stomach yet again. His emotions kept refusing to follow his head. The longing was the hardest part of this whole mission, even harder than unfathomable political puzzles. He was so frustrated with himself that he couldn’t manage to keep his past life from intruding on what he was doing now. It hadn’t been this difficult the last time. It also wasn’t helping that Sherlock knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if John were here, he would have helped Sherlock focus his energies in the right directions.

The garden gate’s creaking was the first clue to Sherlock that he had arrived back at the safe house. Cursing his own preoccupation, Sherlock headed through the garden towards the kitchen door. He had to stop getting lost in his mind at times like this and start watching his back. He didn’t have a soldier following him everywhere to do it for him. As Sherlock stepped into the house, he was surprised to see Maks was back. He had planned to be out scouring the city for information from his own sources for most of the night. Sherlock hadn’t really paid all that much attention to what the other man had told him earlier in the evening. Tuning out Maks was almost as easy as ignoring Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade when they became tedious. Whatever he had discovered while Sherlock had been waiting for the two boys must have been serious indeed if it had changed the other man’s plans. Maks was pacing back and forth in the shabby kitchen, tracks visible in his black hair where his fingers had obviously been run through it in his frustration over and over again. There were papers spread all over the kitchen table that hadn’t been in the house when he had left. Sherlock shot him a quick, searching glance, but other than the obvious signs of frustration and agitation, Maks wasn’t giving off any clues. 

“Whatever is happening, it’s starting to gear up,” Max began, dragging his hand through his hair yet again. “In today’s intelligence reports, there was word from Nikov that three generals and an admiral have been summoned to Krasnodar, to report to a meeting on the 14th of February.” 

“That’s in twelve days. Did Nikov give any hints about the subject of the meeting?’ Sherlock asked quietly; his head was reeling in anticipation. They finally had something concrete to investigate. He almost felt like celebrating.

“No, he’s being his typically vague self. The generals are all based in this sector and the admiral is reportedly from the Black Sea Fleet, which is highly suggestive in itself. Putin doesn’t seem to be pulling in troops from the other districts at this point. Nikov does say that he expects a few high ranking officers from Western Command to be present at the meeting, in addition to the local personnel.” As Maks paused to shuffle through the reports on the table, silence fell over the kitchen. Sherlock’s mind was whirling at the sudden influx of concrete intelligence.

“The Black Sea Fleet’s involvement does tip Putin’s hand a little,” Maks continued, having found the relevant piece of paper in. “Ukraine has, over the last few years, accused Moscow of using the Fleet’s presence in the Black Sea and on Crimea itself to influence the region. Since the start of the current situation, it’s been suspected that Putin is using their presence on the peninsula to bolster efforts by ethnic Russians to achieve a separation between the peninsula and mainland Ukraine.”

“The mere fact that Russian Navy has a base in Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula is going to play right into Putin’s hands here, isn’t it? If invasion is their ultimate plan, it wouldn’t be all that difficult to mobilize agents on the peninsula with very little warning.”

“You aren’t wrong. So far, there hasn’t been enough of a build-up for a large-scale invasion. It’s more likely Putin’s plan is something more subtle than just marching troops into Ilyich and ferry them across the strait into Crimea.” Sherlock frowned, head buzzing with theories and potential plans. Silence fell in the house as both men tried to make sense of this latest development.

“Alexander and Petr turned up tonight, not quite as planned but close enough,” Sherlock volunteered eventually, more to keep the conversation moving forward than because the information was particularly important. “The latest visiting lieutenant in town left with his two minions this afternoon, headed to Krasnodar. I didn’t see them leave, but the boys said they were acting normally, no hurrying, shouting or anything else that would indicate that their departure was precipitated by an unforeseen event.” He paused for a minute, trying desperately to make the necessary connections. “Is Polyakov going to be at this meeting on the 14th?”

“He wasn’t named in Nikov’s report, but he’s not necessarily important enough to have his movements tracked by Belarus intelligence.”

“If all this is a buildup to annex Crimea or the entirety of Ukraine via the Strait, I would think Polyakov would need to be at the meetings, rather than briefed about it afterwards. Leaving him out could cause too many opportunities for miscommunications.”

“Very probably. Putin may keep a lot of plans very close to his chest, but trying to execute a major action without the regional commander being in the loop would be unbelievably reckless, even for him.” Plans were finally starting to crystallize in Sherlock’s brain. This meeting was the key. Finding a way to infiltrate or eavesdrop was absolutely necessary. That meant moving down to Krasnodar before the meeting so surveillance could be established and the meeting location scouted. It might even be possible to go undercover, either with the local military staff or as part of an entourage for one of the visiting generals. It would be incredibly dangerous, but the potential for first-hand knowledge of the meeting was a powerful lure. 

But the potential dangers of any particular course of action weren’t the only factors slowing down Sherlock’s planning. There were outside factors that would complicate their plan of action. At some point, probably before the end of the Distractions, he was going to have to separate from Maks and continue the mission on his own. Sherlock had accepted his fate in this mess; it was a simple trade of his life for those of John, Mary and the baby. But he wasn’t going to let Maks tag along during the steps that would inevitably lead to his demise. Maks was a good man and shouldn’t have to die alongside him. So maybe he could use this meeting as the leverage; keep Maks here watching and reporting back to Nikov while he went east and investigated the meeting.

“Sherlock, stop. We aren’t at that point yet,” Maks interjected loudly enough to pull Sherlock’s attention back into the kitchen and out of his mind. He looked up and froze at the look on the other man’s face. It was almost like the other agent had read his mind, which was almost unprecedented for anyone other than Mycroft or John. “I’m not abandoning you until it’s absolutely necessary. I know why you are here and what your brother expects to happen. But I’m going to do my best to keep that end as far in the future as possible.”

Sherlock just shot him a look that said _I’d like to see you try to stop me._

“From the scraps of information your brother told me while arranging for my participation in this mission, I know that both of you expect this to be a one-way trip. And I don’t necessarily disagree with that assessment, especially based on the probabilities of this all going badly wrong. But I’m not going to put you up on the pyre to burn while I stand in safety.”

Sherlock stared at the other man, his shock obscuring his thought patterns. How had he missed just how clever Maks was? He still wasn’t John; he didn’t focus Sherlock’s thoughts or ask just the right ‘wrong’ question to trigger Sherlock asking the right one. But Maks Lysenko was still clever and apparently more observant that Sherlock had ever given him credit for. He wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

Maks sighed before speaking. “For right now, let’s focus on the immediate future. This meeting on the 14th is the key, we both know that. So we both will be in Krasnodar a few days before the meetings, to make sure we have all the angles covered. For now, you keep shadowing Polyakov and I’ll try to ferret out information from other people. I should probably take a quick trip out to Ilyich too, so we know what the port there looks like.”

Sherlock nodded; visiting Ilyich was a good thought. It would help them figure out if there were plans to start moving more Russian agents over to Crimea. Maks was also right about having two sets of eyes and ears before and during the military briefing on the 14th. As soon as that was finished, it would be time to start thinking about the final part of his mission. He understood that Maks wouldn’t stand in his way when it came time to leave. And if he was honest, Sherlock was also grateful for his insistence on not abandoning Sherlock at the first opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> *The FSB, short for the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, is the intelligence/counterintelligence agency, one of the successors of the KGB (which was dissolved in 1991 after a failed coup)
> 
> Information on the Russian Military districts: http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/russia/mo-md.htm
> 
> \----
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments! I hope those people that celebrated Thanksgiving this week had an enjoyable holiday. 
> 
> I should probably post a note that all meetings and characters described in this story are fictitious. I'm trying to keep this story lined up with real-life events as much as possible, but obviously most of the events or people in this story are based on nothing other than my imagination. (In case my Google searches on the Russian military and intelligence communities have ended up on a government watchlist somewhere.)
> 
> The next update should be coming next weekend. All comments/feedback are welcome! Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags for this story have been updated. See the end of this chapter for the reasons they were changed.

**February 8**

The sound of uneven footsteps and distant voices broke the perfect stillness of the night. Sherlock drew further back into the shadows just inside the mouth of the alley as he searched for the source of the noise. After a few, heart pounding moments, he found it; three men were stumbling towards him on the near side of the street, apparently on their way home after a night at the pub. Pale eyes sized them up as they approached his hiding spot; the tells he could see all over their bodies caused him to breathe a quiet sigh of relief. They were obviously factory workers who had been out celebrating on a Saturday night. There was nothing threatening or overtly suspicious about them, nothing to suggest they were anything other than a group of mates heading home after a night out. Their boisterous chatter echoed around the empty streets, only fading once they had turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Once it was quiet again, he took a deep breath and turned his attention back towards the building on the other side of the street. What he was about to attempt was seriously risky, definitely bordering on reckless. He didn’t even need the persistent voice of his former flatmate to tell him that this was probably one of the craziest plans he had ever come up with. Maks had tried to persuade him that the potential risk more than outweighed anything they could gain tonight. But they both knew that they desperately needed to find concrete information about the military activities in the region. After a long argument, Maks had finally conceded that there wasn’t a better plan to find what they needed, in spite of the high risk involved. So Sherlock was now standing in a shadowy alley in the center of Temryuk, about to attempt a break-in of the courthouse building, which also held the local commandant’s offices. There was no question about it; this plan was the definition of reckless. But Sherlock was absolutely convinced that this was their best option since intelligence was proving exceptionally difficult to come by. It was critical that they start to uncover information and this was the most likely place to find concrete evidence of whatever was being planned.

The only thing that Sherlock and Maks were absolutely sure of was that the temporary military presence in Temryuk had increased over the last few days. The daily briefings were now being attended by at least ten people, instead of the two or three officers they had observed in the first few days after their arrival. They were exhausting all their sources looking for information about the subject of each meeting, but they had repeatedly hit dead ends. Sherlock had met several more times with Alexander and Petr, but they hadn’t been able to provide any specific or noteworthy information. Maks’ few contacts had also turned up nothing particularly helpful or relevant. Polyakov, the commandant, was a man who lived his life by the secrecy rulebook that had been handed down from the height of the Cold War. He maintained a very minimal staff, all of whom had been with him for at least a decade. He didn’t seem to hire anyone on a temporary basis, so infiltrating his headquarters had proven almost impossible by less risky methods. So a break in was really the only way to discover any information about Moscow’s plans.

They were also only six days away from the meeting of the generals’ briefing in Krasnodar; tonight was their last night here in Temryuk. In the morning, Maks was heading northwest to Ilyich to investigate what was happening up at the Strait of Kerch while Sherlock would be heading east to Krasnodar to locate key military targets and begin surveillance there. That meant tonight was their last opportunity to learn what they could about what was happening in the immediate vicinity. 

A church bell peeled in the still night. Sherlock waited, patiently counting the ten loud chimes that marked the time. It was finally time for action. Sherlock took a deep breath and slipped from the alley before darting down the sidewalk and across the street. The military offices were on the first floor of the courthouse, which was located on one side of a public park in the middle of town. It was going to be difficult to enter the building unnoticed, especially since the few winter-barren trees in the park didn’t block the glow of the street lamps. Sherlock could hear the melodic tinkle of the fountain in the center of the park as he moved into the trees that surrounded the courthouse on the north and west. He wished it was a bigger fountain, one that made enough noise to cover the sound of his footsteps that marked his progress along the concrete footpaths. Sherlock circled through the park, aiming for a clump of trees that sat a few feet from the north side of the building. 

He had a general idea of the layout of the courthouse; earlier today, he had used the ever-popular “Could I please use the lavatory?” trick to get inside and perform some minimal surveillance. The men’s lav on the ground floor was located in the northeast corner of the building. He had unlocked the window while inside and tested to make sure it was operational. He hadn’t seen any evidence of an electronic alarm system during his brief sojourn in the building but that didn’t rule out the probability that there would be some sort of security he would need to dodge. All in all, Sherlock reluctantly admitted that he had only the barest scrap of a plan, but it would have to do. It was time to stop wishing for more information and time to start actively seeking it out. Luckily, his two years hunting Moriarty’s web had given him significant practice at improvising during covert operations.

The sound of people laughing and talking once more shattered the peace of the winter evening. Ducking behind one of the trees in the park, Sherlock glanced around, his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to locate the source of the latest disturbance. After a minute, he caught sight of another group of pub revelers staggering by on a nearby sidewalk. Hiding in the shadows of the sparse, barren trees, Sherlock tried to calm his racing heart while he waited for them to move out of sight. It was really unfortunate that the courthouse was located this close to the street; infiltrating the building would have been considerably easier if it had been in the middle of the park. Luckily the crowd moved off in a timely fashion and Sherlock took a deep breath. He paused for a moment, studying their departing forms; there was a remote possibility that they had been an undercover security patrol, posing as partiers. After a few moments, he dismissed it. Their drunken stumbling was a little too authentic for security personnel, and one of the men was singing off-key what sounded like a local football anthem. A security patrol wouldn’t necessarily be creating that type of noise and distraction.

Once silence had fallen over the square once again, Sherlock moved quickly through the shadows of the trees. Heart pounding in his ears, he crept along the side of the building in the direction of the bathroom window he had unlocked earlier. Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths, listening closely to see if there were signs of anyone else in the vicinity. Not for the first time, Sherlock was reminded of how much he had relied on John during escapades like this. He had grown accustomed to having someone around who was skilled at picking out genuine threats and eliminating them when necessary. Shaking his head, Sherlock cursed at himself. This was certainly not a good time to take a wander down memory lane. 

Finally reaching the window, Sherlock stretched up and attempted to lift the sash from the outside. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as the wood frame started to slide upwards. It wasn’t the easiest-operating window, especially from this angle, but after about a minute, Sherlock was able to get it open enough to hoist himself in. The rattle of the glass panes was as loud as an earthquake to Sherlock’s ears as he pulled himself up and over the wood window sill. Heaving himself into the bathroom took longer than it would have if he had been at full strength; he could still feel the effects of his gunshot wound at times like this. Luckily, it there weren’t any sounds from either inside the building or from the park while he was heaving himself into the bathroom. Once he was inside, the window firmly shut behind him, he slid down the wall next to the window, stopping only when he was seated on the tile floor. His ragged breathing sounded loud in the confines of the small room. Listening carefully for the sounds of movement in the courthouse, he remained seated until his breathing had returned to normal.

After a few minutes, Sherlock pushed himself off the floor and crept over to the door; he pressed his ear against it for a minute, listening closely for any sounds outside in the hallway. Taking one more deep breath, he edged it open just enough to allow him to see the dimly lit hallway in both directions. There was no sign of anyone else in this section of the building and no alarm sounded at the movement, to his great relief. Just to be sure, Sherlock crumpled up a paper towel from the dispenser and gently lobbed it into the hallway towards the corner staircase. When the silence continued, Sherlock slipped out of the bathroom, carefully easing the door closed behind him and moved down the hall and into the stairwell. Treading softly up the stairs, he paused behind the steel door at the top, listening yet again for the sounds of anyone else in the building.

Luckily, the hallway upstairs proved to be just as empty as the one downstairs. In any other situation, Sherlock would have been concerned about the lack of nighttime security. But right now, that was really the last of his concerns. Pausing in a corner, Sherlock allowed himself a minute to get his bearings and decide where he should start searching. Sliding through the darkened hallways, Sherlock paused near the top of the main staircase, reading the floor directory that was posted on the wall. The military offices were located in the southwest corner, the opposite side of the building from where he had entered. Just as he headed in that direction, a noise behind him sent Sherlock’s heart racing. A quick glance around failed to reveal the source of the noise. Moving faster, Sherlock kept to the darkest corridors as he headed towards the military offices, keeping his ears open for any other unexplained sounds; however, silence had fallen over the corridors again. Once he had found the correct hallway, Sherlock glanced at the nameplates next to doors as he walked towards the southwest corner. Once he had found the right door, he paused again, pressing his ear up to the wood. Another sigh of relief escaped as he heard nothing coming from the other side. A quick glance at the floor showed no light coming from the inside, another reassuring sign.

Just as he gripped the handle, however, he heard footsteps echoing from a nearby stairwell. Sherlock’s heart plummeted into his stomach. Polyakov’s door was locked and it would be catastrophically stupid to hide there anyway. A quick look around showed two other doors a few feet away. One was on the same side of the hall as Polyakov’s office; a glance at the plate next to the door revealed it was a janitor's closet. It was probably too small to hide in there, not to mention it would be another spot that would be unwise to hide in. The door across the hall had a name next to it, indicating it was an office. A quick test of the handle caused the door to shift in the frame. Sherlock slid inside and took a quick glance around as he pulled the door shut after him. It was an interior office with no windows. There were 2 bookcases against the far wall, a small table covered in papers with two chairs next to the door and, most fortunately, a desk with a full-length privacy panel that would provide good cover in the center of the room. Sherlock ducked underneath it, wondering just how much more of a cliché this break-in could possibly become. Crouching in a completely darkened room only made the pounding in his ear drums seem louder, which in turn made it that much harder to hear what was going on in the corridor.

The voices of two men were suddenly quite distinct as they apparently passed right outside the door. Relief broke through him as the conversation became distinguishable; complaints about having to work late on a weekend meant that they weren’t security. Instead, they were most likely clerks for the court officials, but why were they up on this floor? A few possibilities ran through his mind before Sherlock could stop himself. That wasn’t a mystery he was here to solve. If he got sidetracked by inconsequential details and puzzles, he would blow the whole operation. He made himself wait for two full minutes after the sound of their voices faded away before daring to crawl out from under the desk.

Grabbing a small torch from his pocket, Sherlock flicked a quick glance around the office. He hadn’t had time when he had entered the room to note anything other than the basics about the room before he had dove under the desk. But now, he was glad he had chosen this room to hide in instead of squeezing into the closet. The papers on the table turned out to be a collection of maps and memos, some of which had the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the top of them. Glancing at a few of them, Sherlock felt his euphoria slip a little. None of the memos covered any of the topics that Sherlock was searching for information on; however, there was still some helpful information contained on them. One memo near the top of the pile was a roster of the officers who had been at the various briefings and the dates they had been in town. One of the maps showed the current location of all the military units in the area and a few memos detailed security arrangements for areas near the Winter Distractions. The rest of the memos were about inconsequential matters, affairs of the district and arrangements for security at various local events. Grabbing his mobile out of his pocket, Sherlock started snapping pictures of everything that looked interesting.

Five minutes later, Sherlock had been through the entire pile of documents. After carefully replacing everything exactly as he had found it, he stood for a moment in the dark office, trying to decide what he should do next. The logical step was to go back to Polyakov’s office, but there was surely additional security beyond a locked door. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock made up his mind to at least check the outer part of the office. Pressing his ear up against the door again, he made sure the hallway was quiet before slipping back into the corridor. 

It was less than a minute before he found himself back in front of Polyakov’s office. A pretentious looking plaque on the door listed not only his name, but all the ranks and honors he had achieved during his service to the Russian army. Sherlock couldn’t see any indication that there was any type of electronic alarm in use. Keeping an ear out for the sounds of other inhabitants in the building, he pulled his trusty set of lock picks from his trouser pocket and set to work. It took just over a minute before he heard the lock tumblers click open. Sherlock pushed the door open a fraction, braced to make a quick dash for the stairwell in case an alarm sounded. Once again, though, there was no shrill siren that announced his presence. Easing the door open a little more, Sherlock scanned the darkness of the outer office, desperately searching for any tell-tale lights from a security camera or motion detector. Again, there was nothing. Sherlock was a bit baffled by the startling absence of a security system. An oversight or underestimation of the importance of the information contained within? A more sinister reason? As he realized what he was doing, Sherlock bit back a growl of frustration. It wasn’t his job to deduce the reasons for the apparently lax security arrangement. He just needed to take advantage wherever of any lapse he could find.

The plush carpet of the office silenced his footsteps as he slipped inside, pushing the door closed behind him. Turning on the torch again, he started to give the office a thorough visual scan. There were five standard-issue metal file cabinets on the wall to his right and a non-descript desk on his left, standing guard before the door that would surely lead into Polyakov's personal office. A quick glance at the surface of the desk didn't reveal anything helpful. An older laptop sat closed on the stained and faded top, along with a standard desk lamp and utensil cup stuffed with writing implements and a pair of metal scissors. Sherlock considered stealing or hacking the computer, but there was just too great a chance of being discovered if he did that. Even inept military officials would be sure to notice a missing laptop. 

A quick glance inside each of the filing cabinets also failed to reveal any relevant information. The drawers were filled with completely typical bureaucratic paperwork, detailing such minutiae of local government operations that even Mycroft would have found them tedious. Barely refraining from slamming the last file drawer in disgust at the futility of this mission, Sherlock started debating if he should break into the inner office. While there was doubtlessly vital information in there, a keypad sat on the wall next to the door and a thin wire was barely visible running around the door jam, indicating the system was functional. Sherlock stared at the pad for a minute and had almost convinced himself that the risk was worth it when one more glance around the outer office revealed something he had overlooked in his initial appraisal.

Tucked back into a dark corner behind the file cabinets was a small recycling bin that was overflowing with papers. Luckily enough, either the cleaners hadn't been through this office yet or they didn't bother emptying the bin every day. Picking it up, Sherlock carried it over to the desk, where he dumped the contents onto the desk and began quickly sorting through it all. A delighted smile spread over his face as he skimmed the contents of the various documents. Grabbing for his mobile again, he began to take pictures. This mission wasn’t a complete waste, after all.

\------

The bells of midnight were echoing around the otherwise quiet town as Sherlock eased his body back out of the bathroom window. Landing quietly in the shadows of the foundation, Sherlock took a minute to shut the window while he got a feeling for the city around him. Everything was still and almost unnaturally quiet again. Once he was sure no one was around, he started to make his way back through the park, headed to the safe house. As he exited the shelter of the trees and crossed back onto the streets of the city, Sherlock found himself wishing for a bit more activity to help hide his movements. There was no one on the streets, though, so he took care to hug the shadows and kept an eye out for anyone tailing him.

It was almost twenty minutes later when Sherlock finally caught sight of the house. He hadn’t dared travel the most direct route through the city. Slipping through a few broken fences, he cut through a few gardens before finally reaching the back door of the safe house. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slipped inside, unsurprised to see Maks sitting at the table looking worse for wear.

"I hope tonight provided some information," was the only greeting the other man offered. Sherlock smirked in answer, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and tossing it to Maks in response. The other man frowned as he thumbed it on and glanced at the pictures Sherlock had queued up. His frown changed to a look of astonishment as he read the documents that Sherlock had spotted in the recycling bin. Minutes passed in silence as the other man made an effort to digest the information.

The memos had detailed the troop movements that had so far baffled them. There was an ongoing steady buildup of army divisions in the region. To avoid detection, they were mostly massing east of Krasnodar, far enough away from the prying eyes of the west and invisible to the international gathering in Sochi. There hadn't been any information about their ultimate mission, but it was pretty obvious that Putin was planning something for Crimea. There had been a few memos that reviewed aspects of the recent political and social developments on the peninsula. There were few specifics included, unfortunately, but it was still suggestive of Putin’s general preoccupation with Crimea.

"We need to get this information to Mycroft as soon as possible," Sherlock announced after more than ten minutes of silence. Maks was just sitting in the chair, the stunned look on his face showing no signs of disappearing any time soon. He shook his head slightly, obviously making an effort to gather himself.

"I’ll send out a report while I'm in Ilyich. There is a messenger there that has proven trustworthy. It will take a few days for the message to make it to London, but this kind of information can't go through the normal communication networks. Way too easy for Putin to learn what we've found out." Sherlock nodded. As much as he wanted to tell Mycroft immediately, it just wasn't worth the risk to try sending this type of information electronically.

“What about Nikov? Shouldn’t he be informed?” Sherlock was pretty sure what the other man’s answer would be, but felt like he had to ask the question anyway.

“Not yet. I’m not comfortable with some of the people he surrounds himself with. This is too sensitive to risk.” Maks response was almost growled. Sherlock wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time, what the history between the two agents was. But, yet again, this didn’t feel like the time to press for answers. They had more important things to focus on in the immediate future.

"You better get some sleep," Sherlock reminded the other man. "You’re due to leave in just a few hours. I'll write up the report and have it ready before you leave." Maks nodded and left the room, heading towards bed. As his footsteps echoed through the small house, Sherlock pulled pen and paper from a rucksack on the floor before settling himself at the table in the dimly lit kitchen. There was a great deal of information that needed to be processed before Maks was ready to leave in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos. I've updated the tags to more accurately reflect the nature of the story. I took the John/Mary relationship tag off since it's not the focus of the story. If you have any issues with the updated tags, please let me know.
> 
> The next chapter will hopefully be up next weekend! Thanks for reading! All comments/feedback are welcome.


	9. Chapter 9

**February 9**

_Red sky at night, sailors delight.  
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning._

As he stood in the shadow of a modest house, the sea breeze freezing the tips of his ears and nose, Maksim Lysenko couldn't quite suppress the shiver of dread that was spreading up his spine. He was watching the sky turn from inky black into a brilliant crimson as the sun just started to rise above the Eastern horizon. He could remember his grandfather’s stories about the perils of storms at sea, told to him in a voice made gravelly from decades of harsh winters working his fishing boat. The sky in front of him was quickly turning the most vivid shade of scarlet he could ever remember witnessing. Maks wasn't a particularly superstitious man, but as he stood near the water in the small coastal town of Ilyich, he couldn't stop the knot from growing in his stomach as he thought about the long list of everything that could go wrong just in this stage of the mission from running through his head. His message saying he needed to meet the special courier could have been lost or intercepted. The packet in his pocket could fall into the wrong hands, placing all their lives in jeopardy. Every noise in the distance could signal the arrival of a swarm of policemen to arrest him. They could be completely misreading the tidbits of intelligence that they had managed to acquire over the last six weeks.

Taking a deep breath of the frigid February air, Maks cleared his head as best he could. It was his experience that dwelling on what might go wrong was not only a waste of time and energy, but doing so made it more likely for a person to fail in whatever he was attempting. He had seen agents fall into traps they had been warned about, simply because they were too busy focusing on nebulous threats instead of the dangers that were right in front of them. It was a pitfall that Maks was determined that he wouldn't fall into. After all, he wasn't gifted with the Holmes brothers' gift of being able to pinpoint and analyze a situation for all threats and patterns almost instantaneously. Maks was comfortable with the skills he had managed to cultivate during his years of undercover work. While he could certainly appreciate having a Holmes working alongside him, he was honest enough to know he wasn't capable of emulating their unique talents.

The placid waters of the Sea of Azov glistened in the red-tinged dawn light as Maks kept a constant surveillance of his immediate surroundings. The rocky coastline of the Crimean Peninsula was barely visible on the horizon off to his left, obscured by mist rising off the shallow water. To his right, slowly disappearing into the distant horizon, was a large tanker ship heading off to the ports on the eastern coast of the sea. From his vantage point, leaning against a red brick house near the beach, the ship was the only thing moving. There wasn't as much as a dog barking anywhere in small seaside town spread out behind him. His frown deepened after a quick glance down at the simple watch strapped around his left wrist. The man he was meeting, a Crimean fisherman named Boris Slakov, was late. He had known Boris for over ten years now; he was one of Maks' most trusted messengers. A well-known fisherman, he had the advantage of being able to travel without garnering suspicious attention. The old man also reminded Maks a great deal of his grandfather. Weather-beaten skin and grey-speckled hair hid eyes that rarely failed to notice anything unusual going on around him. He was also rarely late; if Boris didn't show for a pre-arranged meeting, it could only signify serious trouble. Maks bit back a sigh; there had been no time to arrange a back-up plan to get this information handed over. He was leaving from here and heading directly to Krasnodar to meet up with Sherlock this evening. They were only a few days away from that important military briefing. It was critical that they get the intelligence in his pocket to Mycroft as soon as possible.

Just as Maks was considering his options, the perfect stillness of the morning was broken by the distant sound of a boat motor. Within a few minutes, the familiar shape of a small fishing boat appeared, mostly hidden against the cliffs that made up the opposite shoreline. Maks grimaced at the sudden noise and glanced hurriedly at the streets around him, afraid that half the town would be looking out their windows, startled awake by the sudden noise. Fortunately, there wasn't an answering flurry of activity in the immediate vicinity. Of course, Maks realized, the sound of a fishing boat would hardly be an unusual sound in a village on the coast of a major fishing region, even if it was the dead of winter. 

While the boat made its slow progress towards the shore, Maks kept searching surrounding buildings for signs of anyone watching. He felt too exposed here; the complete stillness of the hamlet would make it harder to avoid being noticed by spying eyes and ears. A small, sleepy village with only a couple hundred residents certainly wasn't ideal, but there wasn't time for him to slip into Crimea and meet Boris on his own soil. The information Sherlock had managed to get his hands on in that courthouse was so time sensitive, they couldn't wait for a more covert opportunity to forward it along to Mycroft and MI6. 

As he waited, Maks could feel the weight of the small envelope pressed against his chest on the inside of his jacket. It contained not only reports from Sherlock and himself, but in a waterproof interior pocket was the SIM card from Sherlock’s phone with the photos of all the documents he had found last night. Most of the information Sherlock had discovered didn't reveal the specifics of Putin’s plans. The numbers of troops in the region wasn't necessarily pertinent to Maks and Sherlock’s immediate plans, nor did it give them hints about where they should be focusing their attentions. The only piece of information that Maks had found to be more than vaguely relevant was that all of the briefings they had been monitoring had only contained military officers. The civil officials who had departed from Rostov so suddenly had obviously not been part of whatever was building in this area.

Maks was confident that his report wouldn't overlap with anything that Sherlock had included in his document. Sherlock had focused on the data he had discovered at the courthouse, while Maks’ report was for the eyes of Mycroft Holmes alone. A day or two before Sherlock had arrived in Belarus, Maks had received a very cryptic phone call from the elder Holmes, during which he had laid out the specifics and irregularities of this particular mission. Most of the conversation had been cloaked in hints and double-speak, but Maks had come away from the call convinced that the elder Holmes had a few extra agendas at play while his brother was banished to the Eastern European theatre. Most tellingly, a significant part of Maks’ mission was to pass Mycroft information about the safety and well-being of his younger brother. Maks hadn't told Sherlock that he was passing his own report back to Mycroft, but it wouldn't surprise him if Sherlock had guessed his intentions. _‘I don't guess, I deduce’_ came a drawling reply from a voice at the back of his head, which made Maks grimace. Just what he didn't need was the consulting detective’s drawl taking up even a semi-permanent residence inside his head

A thumping noise brought Maks back to the present. Boris’ fishing boat had finally managed to bump itself onto the beach, some fifty yards to the west. Maks stood in the shadows, watching as the older man quickly secured the boat to a nearby mooring post before walking off the beach and turning west, deliberately heading away from Maks’ position. Turning around, Maks also headed away from the beach, slowly making his way through the sleepy streets. After a couple of blocks, their meeting place came into view. Crowded with grave markers, blue crosses and overgrown trees, the old cemetery was one of the few places in the city where Maks didn't feel he was constantly being watched. Once he was under the shelter of one of the trees, Maks leaned up against the chain link fence and tried to look inconspicuous while keeping his ears peeled for the sounds of anyone approaching.

Finally, after what felt like the longest five minutes of his life, Maks heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel path that wound through the cemetery behind him. Maks turned slightly and relaxed slightly as he spotted Boris approaching through the trees from the south.

“How was the crossing?” he asked as the older man finally reached his side and leaned against the fence next to him. Small water droplets were frozen into his salt and pepper beard, glistening as they caught the dawn sunlight filtering through the trees. Boris looked mostly the same as he had when they had first met; the only physical signs of the passage of time were the depth of the wrinkles on his face and the increase of the white hair mixed in with brunette on the man’s head.

“Not bad,” he replied in his deep, gravelly voice. “The last few months have been busier in the harbor, but most of the serious activity happens on the other side of the peninsula.” 

“Any developments I should know about?” Maks had known Boris through some particularly troublesome times in Ukraine. They had met when Maks was a brand new agent, very wet behind the ears and making mistakes that had put a lot of people in jeopardy. Boris had roped him in and taught him the tricks of the spy game, especially how to trust his instincts when a situation didn't feel quite right.

“It’s getting worse. The protests are growing more and more violent. Photographs out of Kiev show more destruction every week. No one is happy with Yanukovych*.”

“What about closer to Crimea?”

“Been hearing rumors of newcomers in Sevastopol and Simferopol. Not an overwhelming number yet, but we've definitely noticed a gradual increase in the Pro-Russian crowd hanging around the fringes of the unrest.”

“Are they instigating or watching?”

“Watching for the most part. I’m trying to keep an eye on them, but it gets more difficult as the situation keeps heating up. I’m thinking things won’t come to a head for a bit yet. It should calm down while everyone is watching the Games, unless of course Russia doesn't keep winning medals.”

Maks chuckled darkly. So much of what they were trying to track was hinging on how things were progressing down in Sochi. So far, the Games were being declared a success by Putin and the international community, minus one hiccup with a giant snowflake. Everyone was in a festive mood and some of the tensions seemed to be easing on the surface at least

“Anything else of interest?” The other man shook his head. Maks noticed that he was glancing more and more frequently at the surrounding area. The sun had risen fully above the horizon. It was definitely time for Boris to be returning. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the envelope and handed it over. Boris weighed it in his hand, a slight frown on his face as he ran his hand over the edge, apparently testing its bulkiness. Maks bit back a sigh; he knew it was a little thicker than was optimal. But there really hadn't been much of an option; given their time constraints, it was more important to give Mycroft all the information possible rather than take the time themselves to weed out the unimportant parts. After Boris slipped the envelope inside his own coat, Maks bid him a safe trip and watched as he vanished back the way he came. Briefing a sigh of relief, Maks left the cemetery himself and walked back to the beach, heading further along the coast where he could safely watch the boat disappearing back towards the rocky coast in the distance. 

When the boat was gone and the sea had gone quiet, Maks forced himself to leave the serenity of the empty beach and head back to his car. He had a feeling it would be the last sign of tranquility that he would encounter for the next few months.

\----

The hustle and bustle of Krasnodar felt strangely unsettling to Sherlock after a few weeks spent in the overwhelming quiet of Temryuk. It didn't help that the people in the city were in a state of excitement bordering on euphoria because of the success of the Olympics. Crowds of merrymakers would burst into song as they walked down the sidewalks. With all the people out and about in the city, it was easy for Sherlock to blend into the general populace, but it also made it much more difficult to be aware of anyone following him. Sherlock also stood out in the crowd, as he was finding it impossible to fake enough enthusiasm to truly blend in. Hopefully, since tomorrow was the start of the work week, the crowds would be more sedate and people would fall back into their usual routine. To find the people he needed to track in the city, he needed to find people who worked in the military headquarters.

Shaking his head as another rowdy group of people passed by the alley he was standing in, Sherlock resumed his surveillance of the main government complex in town. The Legislative Assembly, with its grand fountain and sprawling park, was just in sight to his right, looking majestic in the late afternoon sunlight. The stately building signaled the Eastern edge of the series of building that were used to house the government and military offices. As far as Sherlock had learned from the information from the courthouse, the high-ranking military officers who would be attending the meeting in three days had arrived in the city already, even though he had yet to personally verify their presence. Of course, since it was a Sunday, it was highly likely that they were elsewhere in the city, possibly even in the large crowds filling the city’s bars.

Over the next several hours, Sherlock searched the compound and surrounding area for as many locations as possible that he could use to observe the activity in and around the buildings. There was a cafe across the street from one building, a vacant floor of a civilian office complex that overlooked the some of the service entrances and a number of convenient alleys where he could watch specific buildings and track who entered and exited them. It had been a calculated risk to spend that many consecutive hours watching such a heavily guarded and patrolled complex, even if it was the weekend. The large crowds out enjoying the various Olympic events did reduce the risk somewhat. Normally, Sherlock would have spread out his surveillance over several days to minimize the probability that he himself was being observed, but there just wasn't time to be more careful. 

A nearby church bell had just started to chime midnight when Sherlock finally decided that he had gained as much information as possible right now. His eyes still shifting to take in the scene, he considered his options. The need to keep searching for information was warring with the thought that if he continued to lurk in the area, the wrong people would certainly start to take notice of his presence. The crowds had thinned out over the last hour, until there were only a few individuals stumbling about, all seemingly under the influence of an abundance of alcohol. Sherlock’s initial instinct was to suppress any need for a break, but his mind was cluttered with all the information he had managed to gather so far. A couple of hours allowing his mind to sort through it all was probably his next order of business.

On the other hand, the gaps in the information on hand made the idea of taking a break feel like a waste of time. He had only a few days to resolve the considerable holes in his plans. He still had to learn the exact time and location of the briefing, not to mention find a way to either eavesdrop on the participants or infiltrate it himself. Under ideal circumstances, he would have time to identify the staff for each of the main participants and attempt to earn the confidence of at least one of them. But that took weeks if not months of work; there was no way to find a reliable source in the amount of time they had. 

A cough from over his shoulder caused Sherlock to jump slightly and whirl around, muscles bracing to defend himself from an attack. With his heart racing and adrenaline pumping, it took him a moment to identify the man who had made the noise. Finally, he realized that a grinning Maks Lysenko was standing a foot or so behind him, obviously savouring the fact that he had been able to sneak up unnoticed. Recognizing the slight shaking in the other man’s frame as suppressed laughter, Sherlock’s eyes snapped into a glare and he barely bit back his growl of irritation. Maks sobered up a little as he took in Sherlock’s demeanor, but as he started speaking, Sherlock could still detect his hidden amusement. It reminded him of the smug tones of John’s voice on the rare times that he had been proven wrong about something. As it always did, memories of John caused a pang of loss and longing to ricochet around his chest for a minute.

“Ilyich is lovely this time of year, if icy wind and a semi-deserted town is your cup of tea,” Maks began, a small rueful smile still gracing his face. Sherlock couldn't quite stop the chuckle that slipped out at the other man’s disgruntled tone. Both of them were much more comfortable in cities. “The package was picked up with no major problems.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the other man, causing him to sigh. “He was a little bit late arriving. Not sure why - there wasn't time to ask too many questions.” Sherlock nodded; demanding answers to unnecessary questions was only one of the pitfalls that could derail this entire operation at any time.

“Did he say anything about what’s happening over on the peninsula?” Sherlock took a quick glance around the alley, making sure that there wasn't anyone attempting to overhear their conversation. Luckily, they didn't seem to have attracted any notion.

“The protests are intensifying every week. Boris said that there seem to be new Russian faces showing up every few days. He thought they were mainly observing instead of instigating, but it’s hard to tell with all the chaos in the area.” Both men were silent for a minute as Sherlock processed the few fact Maks had gathered. “It sounds like the Ukrainian president might not be holding onto his job for much longer,” Maks volunteered, before turning the conversation. “Have you found out anything?”

“Other than confirmation that this is in fact the government district? No,” Sherlock replied, his irritation sharpening the tone of his voice. “I haven’t clapped eyes on the admiral nor any of the generals. I don’t even know which building the conference is being held in or what time it is starting.” Sherlock ran a finger through his hair, his frustration only growing when it reminded him of still missing curls. 

“I have something that might cheer you up,” Maks volunteers, causing Sherlock to swing around and look at him, surprised. “But not here. We need better light… and guaranteed privacy.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were climbing the back staircase of a modest block of flats in a poorer working class area. The flat that Nikov had supplied them with, while a long way from offering the comforts of home, was the most secure location they had in the area. Huffing a little from the climb up to the fourth floor, Sherlock unlocked the door to the tiny room. Flicking on the overhead lights, Sherlock watched Maks take in the small and uninspiring living space, complete with a narrow bed tucked into the far corner and a tiny kitchenette hidden behind the open door. The harsh light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling did little to improve on the overwhelming dinginess of the flat. After a quick glance around and a grunt that Sherlock assumed was a reaction to the drabness of their surroundings, Maks headed over to the table that was shoved up against the wall near the kitchenette. Sherlock followed, his frown growing as Maks pulled a thick roll of paper from the inside of his jacket and started to spread them out over the table. Tossing his jacket onto a kitchen chair, Sherlock followed, anxious to see what Maks had brought.

“I called in at one of my contacts on the way here, who just happens to be in the city planning office,” Maks drawled as Sherlock looked over the papers, which were obviously the building schematics for the complex. 

“Fantastic,” Sherlock murmured as his eyes began to frantically scan the large sheets of paper. “Did he say where the military offices were located?”

“This one here,” Maks pointed to one of the buildings just to the west of the Assembly building. “The ground floor holds several presentation rooms as well as some shared office spaces, while the first and second floors are almost entirely office space.”

Pulling the blueprints closer to him, Sherlock studied the layout of the conference rooms on the ground floor. There were a total of four, but the one just off the main lobby was easily the largest. Unfortunately, it was located on a side of the building that wasn't facing a street, so there were no sight lines from where Sherlock could easily spy on the occupants. The vacant office floor was positioned so the main entrance could be easily observed, but that would only be of limited help. The windows faced the courtyard, but according to the blueprints, they were shielded for privacy. Sherlock wasn't surprised; being able to observe the conference room from outside the building would have indicated a startling lack of security.

“I’m assuming you and I are both thinking the main conference room on the ground floor is the most likely one for the meeting?”

“It seems most likely. There is one other possibility on the second floor. It’s a smaller conference room, but it’s directly connected to the senior commanders’ offices.” Maks pointed to the room on the blueprint, drawing a frown from Sherlock.

“Do we have any idea on how many people are going to be at this meeting? At the least, it’s the local commander, the three generals, the admiral and most likely Polyakov. Would it be likely that they would have their aide-de-camps or adjutants attend as well?”

“Not sure. This source wouldn't have that kind of information.” Sherlock was quiet for a minute, running the possibilities.

“It doesn't look like the 2nd floor conference room would be big enough to hold more than 10 people comfortably. We can’t rule it out, especially if the number of participants is kept to a minimum.”

“Well, having two rooms in one building to target is a lot better than where we were an hour ago.” Maks looked down at the blueprints for a minute before straightening up and fastening his jacket. “I have a few other sources that I should touch base with, now that I’m in town.” Sherlock nodded and stared at the blueprints for a few minutes after he heard the door close behind Maks and his footsteps faded down the stairwell.

It took only minutes to commit the details of the plans to memory. He agreed that having only two rooms to investigate was better than several buildings to key an eye on. As he straightened up from the table, a muscle twinge in his chest caught him unaware. He rubbed at the spot a moment, feeling the hard tissue of the scar from Mary’s gunshot beneath his fingertips. It didn't pain him that frequently, only when he was engaged in a strenuous activity or had been still in an awkward position for an extended period of time. It wasn't surprising, really, that it was acting up again tonight. Pulling his body into and out of the courthouse yesterday had been more physical activity than he had been allowed in the months since he had almost died in that operating theatre. He raised his arms over his head, trying to work the muscles so they could relax.

The muscle twinge in his chest was strong enough to pull his attention away from the situation in Russia and focus it back on the events that had lead up to the confrontation at Appledore. When Mary had turned around in Magnussen’s office, Sherlock had felt like the whole world had tilted on its axis. Standing there, staring down the barrel of her gun, Sherlock couldn't believe that he had overlooked all the clues in Mary’s actions that she was a great deal more than she had appeared at first glance. 

Sherlock had meant what he had told John when the three of them had been standing in his sitting room. John needed danger in his life; while Sherlock had been gone, he had found someone else who had traces of extreme danger inside her. It hadn't been a conscious choice, since Mary had tried to leave the assassin business behind her, but John had sensed it in her nonetheless. Sherlock knew that Mary’s shot wasn't as precise as he had led John to believe. The bullet had done significant damage on its way into his body, which he had exacerbated when he had snuck out of the hospital. But he didn't believe he had any choice; Mary’s insistence that he not tell John had tipped his hand. Sherlock knew he couldn't allow John to be deceived like that again. He had promised himself after his return from the dead that he wouldn't manipulate John like he had before the Fall again. John’s pain and anger upon his return had ripped him apart like nothing else had. So he had forced Mary’s hand, making her confess her sins in front of John. 

Sherlock hadn't been acting entirely selflessly, however. He knew John would eventually figure out that he had known who had pulled the trigger. Any refusal to name the shooter could have caused John to pull away from him again. Sherlock hadn't been able to bear the thought of losing John’s presence in his life. It was better that John get angry and hurt then, during a confrontation where Sherlock could influence the outcome than have him stumble upon the truth by himself. Sherlock knew that he was manipulating John, trying to push him past the immediate anger as quickly as possible. But Sherlock knew how stubborn John could be; he didn't want his best friend trapped in that emotional space endlessly. He had seen in the months leading up to the wedding how important Mary was to John’s peace and happiness. The words the shorter man had spoken on the bench while they had been watching Bainbridge still echoed in Sherlock’s head; Mary had saved him from the hurt and depression that Sherlock had caused. Once he had recalled those words after the shooting, he had known that he had to remove Magnussen’s influence over the Watsons for John’s safety and happiness.

A door closed down the hall, loudly enough to focus Sherlock’s attention back on the tiny flat around him. It was just as well. Spending time rehashing the series of events that had led him to make that deal with the devil wouldn't make his future any easier. As his attention turned back to the situation at hand, Sherlock felt a different type of twitch in his muscles. He wanted to pace the floorboards as he talked himself through everything they knew so far. But just as he went to start, a church bell started to toll in the distance. It was two in the morning, and he could remember with absolute clarity John’s loud, repeated insistence that there were certain times of day where those types of activities were distinctly _not good_. Sherlock would be the first to acknowledge that he didn't often take the concerns or feelings of other people into consideration. But given the shoddy construction of the building, his footsteps would undoubtedly disturb nearby tenants. Attracting attention by disturbing the peace was definitely a poor idea. So pacing was out. 

Instead, after a quick glance down at the sheets to judge their cleanliness, he stretched out on the bed, shifting around for a few minutes to find the best position. A few deep breaths were all it took to sink into his Mind Palace, where he was free to pace and write on the walls as he made sure he wasn't overlooking anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *President of Ukraine
> 
> \-----
> 
> Wow, this one feels like it got away from me a bit. I hope it's not too rambling.
> 
> Thanks for all the view, kudos and comments! I love hearing your thoughts on my story. All comments and feedback are welcome!
> 
> The next update should be next weekend, although I'm not sure exactly when it will be up. There are major family gatherings next weekend to celebrate Christmas, so it might be late on Sunday before I have the time to post.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**February 12**

How could any part of London be this hatefully quiet? The only sounds John could hear were the echoes of the chimes of midnight coming from a distant church bell and the soft thumps of his shoes hitting the concrete as he walked the sidewalks of his suburban neighborhood. Unfortunately, John felt like a fish out of water this far away from the heart of the city; he didn't fit in with the ordinary people who lived in the ordinary, nearly identical houses that stretched from one monotonous street to the next. He missed Baker Street, where the city outside his door never slept, constantly throbbing with life and always evolving. John was sure the appearance of whatever street he was aimlessly walking on hadn't changed one bit in the last decade. It was no wonder John felt smothered here. As Sherlock had said to him once, he just didn't fit into a quiet lifestyle; it sat on him like a poorly-fitted suit, baggy in some areas and pinching in others. A twinge in his leg made him wince; all the long-forgotten symptoms of his original PTSD seemed to be bubbling up as well, which only served to make John feel even worse about his current situation.

The only thing more ill-fitting in John’s life than the peace and quiet of the suburbs was the tense stalemate that stretched between Mary and himself. It pained John when he thought about how strained and distant they had become. What had once been a companionable partnership was now a smothering blanket of tension. It had been almost two months since Christmas Day, when he had stood before Mary in front of the fire; the words he had spoken, heartfelt and sincere, kept echoing through John's mind even as he struggled to begin living up to them. He was ashamed to acknowledge that most days, it took every bit of restraint that John possessed to carry on more than a brief conversation about the weather or when he was working next at the Clinic. Any time either of them tried to venture beyond the most mundane topics, John could feel the hold on his anger begin to slip, no matter what the subject was. The one mostly safe subject remained any developments that were happening with the baby. It was the one serious topic that they could talk about without the tension boiling over.

But even talking about the baby was a potential minefield that had to be navigated carefully. During their last visit to the obstetrician, Doctor Wyatt had pulled John aside while Mary had been dressing at the end of her appointment. It must have been pretty obvious that they were not a couple living in blissful anticipation of their first child's arrival, since the doctor had given John a piercing look. He hadn't pried into the palpable tension in the exam room; instead, he warned John that Mary's vital signs were hovering on the very edge of the healthy ranges. The doctor was particularly worried that Mary's blood pressure was still significantly elevated, to the point where he was seriously concerned that she might be developing eclampsia. John had slouched noticeably in his chair at that pronouncement; he knew he was the cause of the stress that was causing Mary so much trouble. John had asked about inducing labour, as he had shifted guiltily in the uncomfortable plastic chair. They were within the last month of the pregnancy, so the risks to the baby from being born early were dropping by the day and it was the only definite way to abate the risk to Mary’s health. But she had been adamantly against inducing, despite the risks to her own health. She kept insisting it was all in the baby's best interest. Doctor Wyatt had finally agreed to hold off for now, but only if she promised to monitor her blood pressure twice a day at home and call him at once if it stayed in the danger zone for two consecutive readings.

Mary's delicate health was only adding to John's guilt. He was sure that one of the reasons Mary was pushing back on the idea of delivering now was to give John a little more time to try to work through some of his anger without the demands of a newborn complicating the situation. He knew she was disappointed that he was still mired in the anger that had come rushing back in the days between Christmas and New Year’s. He knew he was letting her down; he had promised that the problems of their future were his privilege, but he didn't feel very honoured by all the issues they were having right now. How had he gone from the guarded optimism of that simple phrasing to barely being able to function under the combined weight of his anger and guilt?

On Christmas morning, it had all seemed so simple. He and Mary could work through everything, especially with Sherlock's encouragement and influence. But everything had changed later that afternoon as he had stood on the patio at Appledore, watching in frozen horror as the news magnate's body had fallen after the sharp retort of his own gun. In that second, Sherlock had sacrificed everything for John, Mary and the baby. Now, months later and staring at the wreckage of his life, John wasn't sure he wanted or deserved that sacrifice. In fact, it had begun to feel like a huge anchor hanging around his neck.

The unexpected roar of a car engine broke the complete silence of the night. Looking around, John realized he was walking along the side of the small local park that was just about a mile from his house. He shivered beneath his heavy jacket as the bitter February wind kicked up, making the tips of his ears and nose tingle. He paused for a minute and looked up at the sparkle of the stars in the inky sky above him. The memory of Sherlock's bafflement about the solar system brought a brief chuckle to his lips, briefly breaking the downward spiral of anger and guilt inside him. As a deep cleansing breath cleared his head somewhat, John sat down on a nearby bench that was surrounded by the halo of a streetlight. Staring down at his hands, John sighed again as the recollection of a conversation on a different park bench tugged at the edges of his mind.

The memory of sitting on a bench next to Sherlock as they watched Bainbridge at the Palace gate kept haunting John. He could hear how much he had talked about Mary as they had sat there; at the time, he had been trying, in a very awkward way, to tell Sherlock that they were both equally important to him. But looking back now, he was sure that Sherlock had left the bench under a very different impression, convinced by John’s halting words that he now took a distinctly secondary role in John’s life. 

Looking back, John saw some of Sherlock’s behavior as the actions of a man trying to fit himself into an unfamiliar landscape. The frenzy he had shown during the wedding planning had been startling to John at the time. Mary had seen through the act much easier than he had, encouraging him to do something with Sherlock. At the time, John hadn't really understood why she had pushed it, except to maybe get a few minutes peace from the obsessively planning genius. 

John’s blindness towards Sherlock’s distress was yet another source of guilt. He had let his best friend think he had been just a minor feature in his rebuilt life. Some of it had been a matter of self-preservation; in the days following Sherlock's return from the dead, John had tried desperately to prove to himself that he could be around Sherlock without allowing the mad genius to take over his life this time around. After the black well of depression that had almost swallowed John in the days after the fall, he had been determined to shield himself this time and not let the mad genius take over his entire life. Nowhere was that determination more evident than in the month after the wedding, where he had been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn't even called Sherlock. The shock and horror of finding Sherlock in that drug den still jolted John awake when he revisited that last case in his nightmares. It was no surprise that Sherlock considered himself less important to John's happiness since he came back; John had gone out of his way to emphasize that he had a separate life from Sherlock.

John sighed and tried to push that part of his guilt aside for now. There was nothing he could do now to correct that misunderstanding. As much as he might wish it, John couldn't go back and show Sherlock that he was at least as important to him as Mary. But, just like everything else that was making John feel ashamed and angry these days, accepting that reality was far from simple. He saw reminders of his time with Sherlock everywhere these days, especially within his own home. Above their mantle hung the waltz that Sherlock had composed for them as a wedding present, ensconced in a handsome wooden frame that Mrs. Hudson had given them. It caught John's eye every time he entered the house. He couldn't remove it, as much as he might want to at times; Mary would see it as a sign that he wanted to go back on his promise.

A loud snarling noise broke the stillness of the night, bringing John’s attention back to his immediate surroundings and out of the chaos that lived inside his head. Looking around the empty park, he caught the last flick of a cat's tail as it whipped through a hedgerow. He watched it weave through the bushes on the far edge of the park for a moment, idly looking for whatever had upset the cat. After a minute, he shrugged and gave up; there didn't seem to be anything else moving. John exhaled slowly, watching the fog of his breath catch the light from the bulb over his head. The temperature had dropped again; John could feel the cold starting to settle into his bones. Time to head back home, then, before he got much colder or a copper stopped and tried to arrest him for vagrancy.

It only took John about ten minutes to walk back home, taking a much more direct route to get home than he had wandered earlier. As he slipped back inside the warm interior, light from the lamp post outside the door reflected on the glass of the frame over the mantle. With a sigh, John walked over to stand in front of it, tossing his coat over the back of a chair as he moved through the dark sitting room. After a minute staring at the elegantly written notes, he closed his eyes and the sound of a lone violin began to echo in his ears. His memories of that first dance had changed a bit over the last six months; on his wedding day, he had only heard notes of joy that promised a bright future. Now, though, the notes of that waltz sounded much sadder to John’s ear, as if a goodbye had been woven through the melodic strains of Sherlock’s composition. Coupled with the pang he had felt when he realized that Sherlock had left the wedding shortly after that dance, John kept wondering how he had missed the signs that the brilliant detective had been feeling that he was losing his place in John's life.

Turning away from the frame and all the emotional baggage that came with it, John made his way up the stairs, biting his lip as the old psychosomatic leg pain flared up a few steps from the top. A quick glance into their bedroom showed that Mary was still asleep, curled up on her side with John's pillow clutched to her front. Seeing her hug his pillow in her sleep only made John feel even more like a failure. His anger and guilt was making him a poor partner for a woman struggling through the last stages of pregnancy. Instead of joining her in bed, though, John eased the door shut and padded down the hall to the spare room. He had been sleeping here since New Year’s, using the excuse of not wanting to disturb Mary while she slept; the return of his nightmares meant that he occasionally woke up thrashing. Mary had looked sad when he had decided not to share a bed, but she hadn't pressed the issue, just like she never challenged him on much of anything right now.

Here, in the solitude of a bed he had never shared with Mary, John could admit his most shameful secret. He was growing more afraid that he had made the wrong choice back in December. He had begun doubting that he could rekindle the love that had saved him during the dark days two years ago. But John Watson had never been a man who walked away or gave up and he wasn't going to start doing that now, especially when his very pregnant wife and unborn child deserved better. He knew their stalemate couldn't continue indefinitely. With the baby's imminent arrival, John knew it was crunch time; if he was going to be the man he believed himself to be, he needed to start working through all these emotions, not continue to bottle them up. He refused to put his child through a life where her parents only lived together for her sake; it never failed to make the child feel responsible for their parents’ unhappiness. The other option was just as unacceptable to John, however; he refused to walk away and be relegated to nothing more than a fringe presence in his child's life. So the only thing he could do was find a way forward and through his emotional baggage. The first thing he needed to do was figure out a way to process all the feelings running rampant inside him and begin to let them go.

As useless as he had found his therapist in the days after he had returned from Afghanistan, John wished he could talk to Ella now, just to have the opportunity to articulate his emotions. Unfortunately, there was no therapist in the country who could hear the story of how his wife shot his best friend, who had in turn murdered a very public figure without being required to go to the police with the details. Using his blog as a stand-in for a therapist was also out of the question. That would be tantamount to shouting his confession while standing in the middle of Scotland Yard. Of course, that was assuming Mycroft hadn’t installed a tracker on his laptop that would trigger alarms in MI5 if John even began typing the names Magnussen or Appledore. 

With a sigh, John pulled his pajamas from under his pillow and started getting ready for bed. The mattress in here wasn't terribly comfortable, but at least he wasn't inflicting his discomfort and restless sleeping on Mary. Just as his eyes started drifting closed, however, John jolted awake as an idea blossomed inside his head. Maybe he couldn't type a blog entry or talk to his therapist, but there was still a way for him to express his feelings that might help. As long as he completely destroyed the evidence, there was no reason he couldn't write his feelings on paper. He couldn't show them to anyone, obviously, but hopefully the process of writing them down would help him deal with his swirling emotions. Maybe, just maybe, if he wrote all his conflicted emotions down, he could figure out a way to get rid of the guilt and anger before it ate him alive. With the beginnings of a plan of action finally occurring to him, John felt himself relax for the first time in days and start to drift off to sleep. 

\-----

The pale morning sunlight did little to brighten the dingy concrete of the city. Greg sighed as he left the downtown car park, headed towards the front door of New Scotland Yard; they were into that hateful part of winter where the sun never shone very brightly and most days were spent under a solid grey haze as the sun's rays struggled to penetrate the dense cloud cover. Greg's physical and emotional exhaustion wasn’t helped by the fact that they had been unseasonably busy over the last few weeks. He hadn’t been able to leave the office until hours after the sun had set in over a month now. There had been a run of low-level crimes, none of which were particularly interesting or difficult, but each one came with it's own set of headaches and paperwork. A smirk crossed his lips as he realized just who he was starting to sound like, complaining that criminals were being boring.

Fortunately, there hadn't been any additional suspicious graffiti tags at any of the new crime scenes. Mycroft hadn't been in touch with any information about how the four crimes were all linked, yet. Of course, it had only been two days since charges had been filed against their suspect in the double homicide. While Mycroft’s employees were doubtlessly highly efficient, it wasn't unexpected that this investigation might take some time, since it was probably far from simple. During the Yard's questioning, the pimply faced suspect who was barely out of his teenage years, had refused to talk about any of the details of the crime. That wasn't unusual, especially if the crime was in any way sponsored or issued by a bigger organization, but Greg had seen his own frustration mirrored in Donovan's eyes as they had sat in the dingy interview room.

Just as he was approaching the front entrance to the Yard, a car pulling up to the curb directly across from the doors drew Greg's attention. A weary smile crossed his features as he recognized the sleek black car pulling to a graceful stop. He changed directions slightly, now fighting his way through the morning crowd of commuters instead of going with the flow. As he drew alongside the car, the back door opened far enough to block his path and revealed the besuited form of Mycroft Holmes, framed impressively against the cream leather interior.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector;" came the man’s deep purr in greeting. "Do join me, won't you? I have a few details I need to share with you. It shouldn't take too much of your time." Greg nodded as he slid inside the car. It was pleasantly warm in here and the faint aroma of the taller man's cologne and morning coffee mingled together pleasantly in the enclosed space.

"Thank you," Mycroft said as Greg settled himself onto the back seat next to the other man. "I apologize for interrupting the start of your day, but I wanted to inform you of some developments personally, rather than through electronic means, which you will agree is hardly secure." Greg watched as Mycroft pulled a slim manila folder from a case at his feet, flicking the cover open before handing it to Greg. On top was a picture of Nigel Lancer, the suspect for the double homicide. "Mr. Lancer, there, has turned out to be quite the key in our little graffiti mystery. Certainly not a master criminal by any stretch of the imagination, but he does come with some casual connections to some of our more … interesting … criminal groups."

Greg began to flip through the file, eyes skimming the details of the somewhat tenuous connections between the Lancer family and a couple of the better known organized crime circles. Greg grimaced as he read the details; if it weren't for the link between Nigel's crime scene and the tags, he wouldn't have put any weight into these types of links. The main connection was that Nigel had been classmates with the sons of a few minor drug facilitators from the Kingman drug ring. His older brother had also been arrested a year ago, charged with trafficking after being found in possession of drugs that had been manufactured by the same syndicate.

"So what's the connection to the tags?" Greg asked once he had completed scanning the file. "Do we suspect the drug syndicate is responsible for them? Or is there something more sinister at work?"

"We've never had the necessary evidence to prove it in a court of law, but we believe the Kingman family used to be one of the money laundering operations that was sometimes employed by James Moriarty in the running of his network." Greg felt a frisson of electricity race up his spine at the sound of that name and his eyes left the pages in his hands, focusing on Mycroft’s face in his surprise. "Once Mr. Lancer is in custody, I will have one of my agents pull him in for questioning about the connections. It's not something I want the Yard handling, not with the extreme secrecy that this investigation needs to be handled with." A slightly rueful glance in his direction was the only acknowledgement that Mycroft’s assessment of the situation may have been less than tactful. Greg just shrugged it off; he agreed with Mycroft that this type of investigation wasn't one the Yard should handle. For one thing, they weren't able to work at the same speed as Mycroft's agents. They also didn't have the same access to the highly classified and difficult-to-find information as anyone employed by Mycroft would have.

"Do you need me to do anything in the meantime?" Greg asked after a moment’s silence.

"Check to see if the Kingman drug operation has gotten busier in the last month or so. Don't do anything that would attract their attention, however; I have Anthea investigating, but you have slightly easier access to the files concerning the Yard’s current drug investigations." Greg nodded. No one would question him digging through the files, especially if he was searching through connections with his murder suspect. He reached for the door handle, glancing around at the clearing square; there were only a few people outside the car now, hurrying on their way into the building, most looking slightly harried, no doubt because it was now a few minutes after the top of the hour.

"Thank you for your time, Gregory," Mycroft said as Greg made to exit the car. "I appreciate your diligence and discretion with this case. I assure you that your assistance has been extremely helpful as we work to unravel this curious set of circumstances. I will be in touch as we find out more, but now that we have a place to start, finding the remaining connections should be easier." Greg waved and shut the car door firmly behind him. Ignoring the cold bite of the wind, he stood on the pavement a moment longer, watching that sleek black car ease back into the morning commuter traffic. Greg sighed as he stared blankly at the steady line of traffic through central London, thinking about his reaction to hearing Jim Moriarty's name. He hated that name and all it stood for; the memory of the spider that had cost them all so much four years ago still made Greg burn with anger. If James Moriarty really was linked in any way to what was going on, it was very bad news indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a few days later than normal. Family gatherings are emotionally exhausting! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and all your feedback! I do enjoy hearing from you. Any feedback is certainly welcome.
> 
> The next update should be this coming weekend. Hope everyone has a happy holiday!


	11. Chapter 11

**February 13**

The absolute stillness of the early February morning was slightly eerie in a city as large as Krasnodar. The streets were practically deserted except for the occasional idling delivery van. Sherlock's footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly against the concrete as he headed yet again for the city centre. It would be almost another hour before the morning commuters ventured out into the cold city streets. The windows of the cars lining the streets were all covered in a heavy layer of frost which glistened in the dawn light. 

Once he reached the cluster of government buildings that comprised the city centre, Sherlock made a quick circuit of the military headquarters, doing yet another check for cameras and other signs of a security presence. He didn't notice anything new, just a few standard CCTV cameras that monitored the sidewalks. Leaning against a nearby building, he debated what his next step should be. There was little to be gained from standing in the cold watching a mostly vacant building; the biggest thing he would gain by doing that would be the attention of the types of people he wanted to avoid. So while he waited for the workers to arrive, Sherlock decided to take this opportunity to get a cup of coffee and gather his thoughts. With that in mind, he headed towards a cafe located across the street. Once he had his coffee, he sat down at a small table near the window where he could keep an eye on the front doors of the military headquarters. As he sipped the hot, strong coffee, Sherlock started to review the potential plans for getting his hands on the materials that were going to be discussed during tomorrow’s meeting. 

He had four potential plans at the moment; unfortunately, none of them had a particularly high likelihood of success. Under ideal conditions, Sherlock would obviously prefer to be a direct witness to what was planned during the meeting. That was the only way he could be sure that nothing was missed due to other people's refusal to pay attention. There were two ways to do this: either he needed to be present in the meeting or find a way to record the proceedings. The first option was the riskiest of his plans, by a considerable margin. Given that this was likely to be a small meeting, posing as an aide and attempting to bluff his way into the room was probably borderline suicidal. Maks hated that plan, and Sherlock had to admit that it was almost guaranteed to fail. Making the necessary connections and working the political networks to put himself in that room was a process that could only be done safely over a period of several months. So that plan was out of consideration. 

Using a recording device was certainly safer, but it still had some inherent difficulties. First off, the plan hinged on either identifying someone who would definitely be in the room during the entire meeting or planting the device inside the conference room before the meeting and then retrieving it later. One of the problems with this plan was that they weren't sure which of the conference rooms was going to be used for the meeting. Nor did they know which of the office staff would be there. There was also no guarantee that Maks' contacts would be able to supply them with a suitable recording device, not to mention the inherent risks associated with entering the building multiple times.

If he couldn't find a way to directly observe the meeting, there were a couple of possibilities for indirect data collection. The first and most obvious option would be to blackmail and/or bribe someone to hand over the details after the conclusion of the meeting. But, just like the other, more direct options, this plan required significantly more time and information than they currently had. The only participants they were sure of were the generals and admiral themselves. The stupidity of approaching unknown officers of those ranks could not be understated.

The final and most straight forward option was to wait until the meeting was over, break into the headquarters and attempt to hack into the computer system. This was the plan that he was leaning towards, simply because it had the fewest downsides and was the plan Maks was also likeliest to agree to. Hacking the computer system would be difficult, but it was still safer than any of his other options. To help with this plan, however, there were some tools he needed. After making sure none of the early commuters beginning to enter the cafe was in a position to see what he was doing, Sherlock pulled a small netbook out of the inside of his jacket. As the computer booted up, he watched the crowd, idly deducing the various people standing in line. 

It took a few minutes for the computer to boot and the security software developed by Mycroft's people to load. He might be connected to the cafe's Wi-Fi, but there was absolutely no guarantee that the connection wasn't being spied on. Part of the security software loaded on the computer was designed to make it difficult to track his location and internet activity for a short period of time. Luckily, the short window was sufficient for what he needed; a few quick keystrokes were enough to access Mycroft's personal file server, where his brother kept copies of some of his most sophisticated espionage tools. The file at the top of the list was the one he was looking for; it contained a set of sophisticated scripts that would allow him to bypass many of the commonly used security settings and restrictions. The download took seconds, but before he logged off, Sherlock took a minute to upload a small file to the server; he knew his brother would be notified automatically that the server had been accessed. While he couldn't risk transmitting any of a secure nature, but he did leave an image file, a picture of an Irish setter, which would tell Mycroft exactly what Sherlock wished him to know. Once that was complete, Sherlock shut the computer down with a glance at his watch. All that had taken less than two minutes; with any luck, it was brief enough not to be noticed by anyone who might be watching for suspicious transmissions. But he figured he should leave the café anyway, just to be safe. Just as he was getting up, two women entered the cafe and joined the ever-increasing queue. As he moved past them towards the door, their conversation pierced his concentration.

“...just hoping to be done before midnight,” one of the women was complaining. Her short, bottle-blonde hair was looking slightly frazzled, as if she had rushed her morning routine. “Everything for tomorrow’s meeting is taking longer than planned and most of the information is still missing.” Sherlock’s frown disappeared as he realized his good luck. He changed course, ducking into the queue behind them rather than heading outside. Pretending to be engrossed in something on the screen of his mobile, Sherlock shuffled along behind them. 

“I hate dealing with the aides for these generals. They always give so much attitude and posing, and provide very little actual cooperation in return. And each one has demands for the board room - extra chairs, special coffee selections and on and on…” she continued with an irritated glance at her watch. Sherlock couldn't help smirking as he listened to her stream of complaints. His initial glance at them had told him everything he needed to know. The blonde was obviously a civilian secretary in the building, since she was wearing a sharp blue skirt and court shoes instead of a military uniform. Her stress levels were readily apparent in the shadows under her eyes that weren't quite hidden by her makeup and the tension in her shoulders and mouth. The other woman wasn't employed by the military, based on her more fashionable clothes and shoes. 

Sherlock continued to listen to their conversation, growing a little frustrated as it drifted from the meeting tomorrow to focus more on the blonde’s personal life. She was in a post-breakup phase, complaining about running into her ex the other day and bemoaning the dearth of eligible men in her life. A quick idea popped into Sherlock's head, only to be met with a curse as he was forced to push it aside. He didn't have nearly enough time to use her loneliness to his advantage. Using Janine to gain entry to Magnussen’s offices had taken him a month of wooing, even with the inherent advantage of meeting her at John’s wedding. A grimace chased across his face as the end of that particular association floated back to him. Granted, there was only a very minor chance that this woman was an assassin (or the best friend of an assassin), so the risk of being shot was fairly unsubstantial. Unfortunately, with the meeting happening tomorrow afternoon, there just wasn't time to use her loneliness.

The women were finally at the counter, and Sherlock followed along, hoping to hear the blonde’s name so he could have Maks’ contacts investigate her. Unfortunately, it looked like it was the friend’s turn to pay for the coffee, since she was the one who gave her name and handed over the money. He ordered a cup of tea, hoping that it would be prepared faster than their lattes. Luckily, all three drinks were finished at the same time, so he followed them out of the crowded cafe. Sherlock tried to keep only one or two people between them as he walked down the sidewalk, hoping to continue to eavesdrop on their conversation. His mouth quirked in a small smile as he overheard them make plans to eat lunch together at a nearby deli. That was the last of their conversation, though, because after a quick hug and air-kiss to the cheek (did people really do that outside of John’s ridiculous movies??), the two women headed in opposite directions, no doubt each headed to her workplace. Sherlock tailed the blonde as she circled the military building, heading towards a side entrance that he had mostly overlooked in his observations yesterday. This side of the building was facing the heavily-traveled plaza that ran down the centre of the complex, while Sherlock had been focusing on the entrances facing the side streets. As she walked up to the door, he fell back slightly, hoping to avoid looking suspicious while still keeping an eye on how she entered the building. She paused long enough to enter a five digit code into the keypad next to the door handle before pulling the door open. A moment later, the door closed behind her, but the frosted glass panel allowed Sherlock to follow her steady progress down the hallway. Sherlock smirked at what might be his second breakthrough of the morning; it would be an amazing bit of luck to find an entrance with such basic security.

Sherlock slipped backwards into the shadows of a clump of trees nearby, trying not to look suspicious as he kept an eye on the door for a few minutes. Several additional people entered, each just inputting an individual code. One man even held the door open for a minute while a short brunette hurried up, obviously running late. Sherlock was able to get a good glimpse of the hallway past the door during that time, which confirmed that the door code seemed to be the only form of security; there wasn't even an alarm that sounded when the door was propped open for more than a minute. He couldn't discount the possibility that the door and hallway beyond were monitored by cameras, of course. But that would just be a risk he might have to take at this juncture. 

Yesterday, he had staked out the front entrance, keeping track of the people who came and went from the building. There were cameras clearly visible through the large, plate glass windows that were obviously positioned to monitor both sets of revolving doors. There was also a reception desk, where two receptionists had been stationed all day, greeting everyone who had entered the building, checking IDs and signing for packages. Unfortunately, that eliminated one of the more obvious ways of entering the building; he couldn't count the number of times he had pretended to be a deliveryman and bluffed his way into secure areas. It was looking like the side door was going to be the best way into the building. Sherlock settled into his favorite alleyway to keep watch while he waited to follow the blonde to her lunch spot.

\---

A scowl darkened Sherlock’s face as he left the cheap, noisy deli just after the lunch rush had ended. Trying to eavesdrop on the blonde woman from the coffee shop this morning during her lunch break had been a ridiculous waste of time. With no control over the environment, he had been shoved into a booth that was about as far away from the woman and her friends as it was possible to be. It was evidently a very popular eating establishment, since there hadn't been a vacant table in the dining room and the noise level had reach ear-ringing levels shortly after the women had been seated. There had been no chance of overhearing anything and to make matters worse, his target had chosen a seat facing away from him, so even lip reading was impossible. 

Glancing down at his watch, his scowl deepened as he realized just how late he was now running. He had been due back at the flat fifteen minutes ago. Moving quickly through the busy city streets, Sherlock continued to analyze the information he had been able to gather that morning, sorting out the important details and discarding the chaff.

“You’re late,” was the only greeting he was offered as he closed the door behind him. Maks was seated on the bed, today’s newspaper spread out around him.

“My apologies,” Sherlock replied a little dryly, “I was attempting to eavesdrop on one of the secretaries organizing tomorrow’s meeting.” At that, Maks’ head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I happened to be in the cafe when she stopped in for her morning latte. Just as I was leaving, I overheard her complaining to her companion about the amount of work left to do and the fact that the other generals’ staffs kept adding requirements. She also complained about how the space limitations of the boardroom were making it difficult to meet all the special requests.”

With those words, Maks launched himself off the bed and went to the table, which was still covered in the blueprints they had acquired two days ago. 

“The boardroom, huh? Well that at least narrows the location down. I doubt that name fits any of the ground floor conference rooms.” Maks flipped through the first and second floor plans for a minute. 

“There’s the one smaller conference room on the second floor. That could easily be described as the boardroom, since the generals’ offices are located in that wing.” Sherlock commented. Maks nodded absently as he shuffled the pages around to look at the access to that conference room. 

“It’s also the most secure of the conference rooms,” Maks commented, pointing to an area just outside the offices “since there is a receptionist desk that you have to pass to enter the wing.” Sherlock frowned as he studied the blueprint. There was only one stairwell that accessed the hallway behind the reception desk - a fire stairwell located in the northwest corner of the building. Being a fire stairwell, however, meant that there would be alarms on all the doors that accessed it. 

“I was able to follow her from the coffee shop to the building and watch how she got into the building. She used this entrance over here,” Sherlock pointed to the location of the side door on the ground floor, “using a five-digit code on the keypad. There didn't appear to be any obvious security beyond the door; one of the other workers was kind enough to hold the door open for more than a minute as I watched. It was just a standard office hallway, even down to the horribly typical beige paint on the walls. Of course, there could be a camera watching the door from the inside; it was impossible to tell from the plaza.” Sherlock paused, frowning as he looked studied the floor plans. Several minutes passed in silence as each man considered the possibilities. Finally, Sherlock broke the quiet. 

“Unfortunately, accessing the boardroom to secrete a listening device is going to be very difficult, given the receptionist and the location of the room. The fire staircase is the only one behind the desk and it will most certainly be alarmed. Boldly walking past the receptionist is also inadvisable, simply because it’s almost guaranteed not to work.” Sherlock bit back a growl, his frustration levels rising as he laid out all the obstacles in their way. Every time they found concrete information, it just created additional obstacles. Sherlock was beginning to feel the urge to do something incredibly rash, take a step that would break the mission wide open, even if it meant doing something that could be categorized as reckless.

“What is the likelihood that the blonde you were following this morning will be at the meeting? Any chance she could be the person taking the minutes?” Maks asked, still staring at the blueprints, apparently unaware of Sherlock’s train of thought.

“She didn't mention it at the coffee shop, but if she’s the person in charge of coordinating it, chances are she’ll at least have access to the minutes afterwards, even if she didn't create them. With any luck, she’ll be in charge of distributing them; emails are pretty easy to hack most of the time.” He paused, letting his mind race with new possibilities. “Why did her friend have to be the one who bought the coffee this morning? At least we would know her name!” Sherlock yanked his fingers back through his hair. 

Maks looked up from the blueprints and studied Sherlock for a minute, as if he was weighing his options. “Look,” Sherlock continued, hoping to stave off an argument, “everything right now depends on finding out who this blonde is. If we can identify her, it might be possible to obtain what we are looking for without having to take many risks.”

“True,” Maks said, sounding more than a little relieved that Sherlock was at least considering other options. He sighed, and turned back towards the bed. Sherlock frowned, watching as Maks pulled an unfamiliar satchel from underneath the thin mattress. “My contact was able to provide photos and brief bios for most of the senior staff who work in the building.” He handed the file over, watching as Sherlock spread the pages out on the small kitchen work surface. It took only a minute to find the face he was looking for; there, on the last page of the bios, was the unsmiling face of Renata Zhilin, the thirty-five year old administrative assistant to General Yerzov, the leader of the Krasnodar district. Sherlock took the page and handed it over to Maks with a bit of a flourish. While he was studying the details, Sherlock went back through the bios, just to make sure that the brunette from this morning wasn’t included as well. 

“Do we know which office is hers?” Sherlock asked, returning to the kitchen table once he had finished. “I think it’s safe to say that she will be in possession of the files for the meeting, since she’s the General’s aide.”

“No, none of the offices are labelled.” Maks frowned at the layout before pointing to the corner office. “This is going to be General Yerzov’s, obviously, so it would make sense for Renata’s to be either of these, since she would need to be close by.” There were two smaller offices immediately adjacent to Yerzov’s, either of which would be suitable for a civilian assistant. They were also adjacent to the conference room where the meeting was likely to happen “What are you thinking?”

“If the meeting is indeed happening tomorrow afternoon, which was what Renata implied in the coffee shop, I think the best chance for entering the building unnoticed will be to blend in with the crowd of workers returning from their lunch breaks.” Sherlock paused, trying to marshal his racing thoughts. Shuffling through the plans on the table, Sherlock uncovered the first floor plan and pointed out an area to Maks. “There are some store rooms located just below the boardroom. I’m hoping I can enter one of them and hide until after everyone has gone home. Then it will be a straight forward matter to sneak up to executive wing and locate Renata’s office. Once I’m inside it, I can access her computer and the files we need.”

“This is going to be much more secure than that courthouse in Temryuk,” Maks was practically growling in his frustration as he started pacing. “There are bound to be motion sensors and cameras. Getting out of there will be practically impossible. Besides, how do you know she has a desktop? It wouldn't be unheard of for a person in her position to have a laptop, which would make this whole operation a pointless risk.”

“Well, she wasn't carrying a laptop this morning at the coffee shop,” Sherlock replied, remembering the garish designer bag she had been toting. It hadn't been large enough to conceal a computer in its depths. But Maks did have a point; just because she wasn't carrying it this morning didn't mean she didn't have a laptop. “Do we have her home address?” 

“You aren't thinking of breaking in, are you?” Maks said, cutting him a suspicious look

“Well, a private flat would be far less secure than the military headquarters,” Sherlock countered. “But no, I was thinking of staking out her home and seeing if she was carrying a computer with her when she returns tonight.” Sherlock wasn't being completely honest, of course. Breaking into Renata’s flat could server multiple purposes. “Do we have any recording or tracking devices we could plant on her?”

“Not here on me, no,” Maks replied as he shook his head.

Sherlock bit back a curse. “If we could plant some type of bug on her before she goes into the meeting, that would be ideal. We could record the meeting without having to be anywhere near it.”

“I’ll see if I can locate one, but it might not be in time. What’s your plan?”

“Well, how hard would it be to plant something on her, either in her flat in the morning or on her way to work? It doesn't have to be a broadcasting bug, just one that would record everything said in her vicinity.”

“How would you retrieve it?”

“She was complaining this morning about her recent break-up,” Sherlock volunteered with a shrug. “If all else fails, I bump into her on her way home tomorrow, quite literally if necessary, and then ask to buy her a drink to apologize for my clumsiness.” Sherlock was very familiar with this technique after all; he had used it many times during his time abroad. Maks grunted; Sherlock knew that was all the acknowledgement he was going to get. “While you look into a tracking device and see if you can find her address, I’m going back to do some more surveillance. Text me with her information when you get it.” With that, Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed back out of the flat.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock was back at the city center, standing yet again in what was fast becoming his favorite alleyway in the city center. A quick glance around showed few pedestrians in the area; at just after 3pm, most everyone was back at their jobs, which was to his advantage. The fewer potential witnesses milling about the better when attempting to enter a secure building covertly. He exited the alley, walking in a slow but purposeful manner, focusing on trying to look like he wasn't casing the building, which of course was exactly what he was doing. This morning, he had managed to memorize five different access codes in his few minutes after following Renata here. He needed to test the security on the side door before tomorrow afternoon.

Picking one of the codes at random, he approached the door from the south, concentrating on not looking like he was studying the entryway. His step confident but measured, Sherlock walked up the sidewalk, eyes covertly darting around looking for cameras or other monitoring devices. They were either particularly well hidden or there simply weren't any. As he approached the door, Sherlock made a show of tugging off a thick glove, using the time to study the keypad setup. It was just a simple keypad - again, no sign of video monitoring. Once the glove was tucked into his pocket, he keyed in one of the number codes and hit the number key, following the same procedure as everyone had used that morning. Sure enough, Sherlock heard the click of the door lock. A quick tug of the door handle opened the door, leading to a very typical office block corridor beyond it and more importantly, no sign of reception desk or security personnel monitoring the hall.

Sherlock entered the building, glancing around as if making sure the door was fully closed behind him. There was no keypad on the inside, just an ordinary door handle. The door shut with a quiet click behind him. The thick carpet muffled the sound of his footsteps as Sherlock walked down the quiet hallway. The silence in the hall was a bit spooky. There weren't any of the sounds that were normally present in an office setting; offices were generally fairly noisy as the sounds of copy machines, faxes and computer equipment created a background hum that was instantly recognizable. Sherlock paused just before the end of the hallway, wondering just how far he should explore, but just then, a distant conversation broke the silence. The voices of a couple of men, obviously deep in some mundane conversation, grew steadily louder while Sherlock held still in the hallway. But getting arrested for trespassing today wasn't part of his plan, so he crept back down the hallway and exited the building quietly. While the inside of the building hadn't revealed any great secrets, it hadn't been a waste of time since he now had a way to get into the building. With a sigh, he headed back to the flat to see if Maks had been successful in acquiring any monitoring equipment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of you who are still reading! I can't believe how complicated this story has become - it was such a simple idea inside my head! Any and all comments, feedback, etc is welcome!
> 
> The next update should happen next weekend, as usual.


	12. Chapter 12

**February 14**

Sherlock was starting to consider the theory that extreme boredom could actually prove to be fatal. That was the only explanation for the feeling that time had stopped in the last three hours. He had never thought that spending hours hiding in a storage room would be a pleasant diversion, but the monotony of watching a single patch of sunlight move across an otherwise dark shelf-lined room was quickly becoming one of the absolute worst pastimes imaginable. This was far from his first stake out, obviously, but the three hours he had been trapped inside this small room had been excruciatingly dull. Despite the boredom, however, the mission so far had been fairly straight-forward. It had proven to be fairly easy to enter the building in the crowd of workers returning from lunch. The man in front of him had even held the door for him and once inside, it had been simple to sneak up to the first floor and slip unnoticed into the store room. 

A quick glance at his mobile’s screen showed that the meeting should be concluding soon. The conference room was almost directly above him. Sherlock had entertained a vague hope that he would be able to hear some of the proceedings through the floor; unfortunately, the soundproofing hadn't been skimped on by the builders. The only sounds that broke the oppressive silence were the noises from the occasional passerby in the hallway. Those intrusions were fairly fortuitous, since he needed to hear if anyone started to unlock the door. It would definitely be "not good" to be discovered hiding inside a military building. Fortunately, there was a small janitor's closet in here, and Sherlock had settled down next to the door to wait. He wouldn't get much warning, but there should be just enough time to hide inside the closet if someone sounded like they were coming in here. It wasn't much of a contingency plan, but it would do in an emergency.

It would have been so much simpler if they could just record what was going on upstairs. To his great chagrin and irritation, Maks' contacts had been unable (or possibly unwilling) to supply them with any kind of bug that could have been planted on the General’s secretary. It wasn't often that Sherlock found himself actively wishing for his brother’s presence, but this mission was proving to be the rare exception. Sherlock knew without a doubt that Mycroft had at least three different types of electronic monitoring devices in his possession at all times that would have served his needs. 

Sherlock bit back a frustrated sigh as he shifted restlessly against the hard wall; his wadded-up coat only provided a little relief to the growing ache in his lower back. His arse had gone numb within the first half hour he had been forced to sit on this incredibly uncomfortable industrial carpeting. Unfortunately, it was only a few minutes before 4pm, so it was likely that he had several more hours of sitting on this hard floor before it was safe to start hunting for information. Of course, Sherlock thought bitterly, there was absolutely no guarantee that Renata Zhilin had even been in the meeting. She could also be waiting until tomorrow to type up the minutes and whatever notes she had taken. 

But Sherlock felt like tonight was the time to make this move. It was vital to keep trying to stay one step ahead of whatever was being planned in Moscow. The Olympics would end in just over a week, which also meant the end of their safety window. A few days after the Closing Ceremonies would be all the time necessary for the international community to forget this corner of the world existed. Then Putin would have every opportunity to start his plans and it would be all but over before the world even knew what was happening. 

The next step of the mission was beginning to weigh on Sherlock’s mind, especially now that this meeting was finally happening. He and Maks had been working towards this point for weeks now, having spared almost no thought about what they should do next. Discovering what was decided during today’s meeting felt like the end of the exploratory stage of their mission. From here on out, they should be focusing more on concrete details and less speculating on Putin's plans. One large obstacle to that goal was that Krasnodar was too far away from what was likely to be the epicenter of the action. They were less than a hundred and fifty miles from the Strait of Kerch, but it might as well be a thousand miles given the secrecy surrounding every aspect of Putin's regime. Sherlock was sure that the best way to discover solid, actionable evidence was to be located deep within the conflict zone.

Sherlock knew that his decision was not going to be a popular one with his partner. Maks was going to argue about the risks involved, but Sherlock was absolutely determined that he was going to cross the Strait before the end of the Games. He was also adamant that he would be crossing alone. He was heading into the heart of the conflict and he wouldn't allow anyone else to join him. Maks was too good a man to be allowed to tag along on Sherlock’s personal death march. Sneaking away while Maks was otherwise occupied would be difficult, but it would probably be the best way to leave the other man behind.

The mobile in his hand gave a brief buzz, thankfully pulling Sherlock's thoughts back to the matter at hand. It was too early in the mission to be focused on the end point if he didn't want to get sloppy.

_Fancy a tea break?_

A soft sigh broke from Sherlock's lips as he read the coded text; the first stage of the waiting game was over. Maks was stationed in the alley across the street so he could track the movements of the people they knew were at the meeting. The Officers had just left the building, so the meeting was obviously done. Unfortunately, the end of the meeting didn't mean an end to his boredom and discomfort. Sherlock shifted again, trying to find a position that didn't hurt as he settled in to wait.

\---

It was almost three hours later before another vibration from the phone in his hand broke the silence of the storage room. 

_Let's have dinner._

Sherlock couldn't help the wry smile that broke out as he read that particular coded message. He had deleted much of the details of the Adler affair, but John's reactions to her texts was one of Sherlock's fondest memories of that whole debacle. But, luckily for his aching body, Renata had finally left the building. His smile turned into a grimace as he started to stand up for the first time in hours. A groan nearly escaped his lips as pins and needles shot up and down his legs. It took several long minutes of pacing the storage room for the feeling to return, but finally he felt like he could move with his usual amount of stealth. His cheap black trousers, coat and dress shirt were a far cry from the bespoke suits he used to wear, but they would make it easier to blend into the mostly deserted building.

After silencing his phone, Sherlock pressed his ear up against the cool wood of the hallway door, straining to hear if anyone was moving in the outside hallway. As far as he could tell, the area outside the door was quiet. Turning the door handle as slowly as possible to avoid making any noise, Sherlock pulled the door a fraction of an inch and looked as far as he could see in both directions. He knew that there were no cameras in the hallway outside, but he needed to make sure he didn't alert any late workers to his presence. Fortunately, all of the offices nearby were dark. Slipping out of the storage room, Sherlock paused for a brief moment to be sure he had his bearings straight. The fire stairwell that led up to the general’s offices was just down the hall to his right. He could see the warning sticker on the door as well as the alarm at eye height just next to it. So he turned towards the main office area where there were at least three unguarded staircases to the top floor. 

Sherlock bit back a curse a few steps later as he realized a door had been closed ahead, blocking his way to the nearest unalarmed staircase. A quick examination of the door frame showed no wires or any other sign that the door was alarmed. Testing the door handle showed that it wasn't locked. But why was the door closed? Could there be a security presence he didn't know about on the other side? Sherlock lost himself for a minute, running through all the various possibilities before shaking his head to clear it. The stairwell he was heading towards was right outside this door. If an alarm sounded, he could be down those stairs in seconds and headed for the side door before anyone could respond. Taking another deep breath, Sherlock pulled the door open, but no alarm sounded when he stepped through the portal. He didn't linger in the entryway, however, since there were distant noises from other parts of the floor. 

The door to the staircase was about ten feet ahead of him on his right. Just before the door slammed shut, Sherlock snuck a hand behind him, breaking the swing so he could close it as quietly as possible. So far, so good. It took only about fifteen steps to reach the door to the stairwell, which seemed like an eternity as he listened for the shrill shriek of an alarm. Yet again, the only sound that greeted him was his own muffled footsteps. 

Two minutes later, Sherlock peeked around the door at the top of the staircase, getting an idea of the layout of the lobby that lead to the general's offices. After he was sure the lobby was empty, he left the stairwell, heading quickly and quietly towards the polished wood desk at the other end of the room. A security panel just to the side of the doorway into the "executive hallway" caught his eye as he neared the far wall. A small smile broke across his face as he walked close enough to read it; the security system for the entire building was currently disarmed, according to the display screen. Just below the panel was taped a piece of paper, which unbelievably detailed the security procedures for the entire building, which almost made Sherlock laugh out loud. No matter how secure or confidential an office needed to be, there were always employees who taped their passwords to their computer monitors or, in this case, posted confidential security information in plain sight. He was in luck; according to the paper, the system was set to automatically arm itself at 10pm, unless the cleaning staff delayed it because they weren't finished for the evening. That meant he had just about two and a half hours before the motion sensors and alarms would be activated. That should be plenty of time, unless the rest of the security was significantly better that what he had encountered so far.

The beige carpet in this hallway was plusher up here and the artwork on the wall was of a significantly higher quality than what hung in the other corridors he had passed, causing Sherlock to smirk as he surveyed the long hallway in front of him. It was a universal constant: executives always gave themselves higher quality surroundings than they did their employees. There were seven doors on the left side of the long corridor and only three doors on the right side. According to the blueprints, the rooms on the left were offices and file rooms, while the first two doors on the right should lead to the Boardroom. The last door on that side was hopefully Zhilin’s office, since it was closest to office they were assuming to be General Yerzov’s. A quick glance around showed that there was no light visible under any of the doors; apparently Zhilin had been the last one to leave for the day.

The soft peel of the lift bell echoed from behind him, making Sherlock's pulse quicken significantly. The sound of male voices followed from the direction of the main lobby. As quietly as possible, Sherlock ducked inside the conference room. Pulling the door mostly shut behind him, he pressed against the wall, listening intently to the muted sounds of their conversation. Luckily, the sound of their voices faded away and Sherlock soon heard the sound of a heavy door opening and closing on the other side of the building. Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Once silence had fallen again, he pushed the door fully closed and turned to survey the conference room.

Even though the room shrouded in darkness, Sherlock could tell that it had obviously been thoroughly cleaned after the meeting. A long sideboard cabinet stood next to the wall between the two doors; resting on the surface was a tray of clean glasses and two empty carafes, which had held coffee earlier this afternoon, judging by the faint aromas still drifting from their mouths. As his eyes adjusted to the limited light filtering through the blinds on the two windows, it was disappointingly obvious that whoever had cleaned the room had done a thorough job; there were no dossiers or meeting notes lying on any of the surfaces and the dry erase boards mounted on the walls of the room had been thoroughly cleaned. The trash and recycling bins had been emptied as well. The only object that was obviously out of place in the whole room was a pen that lay abandoned in the middle of the long, wood conference table.

Heading towards the other door, Sherlock cracked it open and listened for a minute, relieved at the continuing silence. A quick glance up and down the hallway showed that all the lights were still off in this wing. Out in the hallway, Sherlock took a minute to check the name plates on the doors opposite the conference room, just in case. But his theories about the office layout were confirmed when he checked the nameplate on the last door on this side of the hall. The room across the hall from Zhilin's office was an executive file room and the door at the end of the hall was indeed that of General Yerzov.

A quick test of the door handle showed that her door was the first locked door he had encountered in the whole building. Sherlock pulled the lock picking tools out of his pants pocket, and after a quick survey of the door frame failed to show signs of an alarm system, he set to work. Luckily, it wasn't a sophisticated lock and in just over a minute, Sherlock was rewarded with the quiet click of the tumblers clicking into place and the door handle turning beneath his fingertips. Sherlock pushed the tools back into his trouser pocket as he eased himself through the barely open door. 

A rapid inspection of the room yielded no great surprises; a standard issue desk was directly across from the door, while grey, metal filing cabinets lined the right wall. Behind the desk was a solitary window, through which the lights of the plaza shone faintly. To his left were two cheap bookcases, which were filled with standard-issue reference books and a handful of personal knickknacks. A quick glance in the recycling bin and trash can near the desk showed they were empty.

The desk itself was clean and well organized, and mostly occupied by Renata’s computer, much to Sherlock’s great relief. Unsurprisingly, it was a more modern computer than any he had encountered so far. Two decent-sized monitors occupied the majority of the grey metal desk surface, while the CPU took up most of the footwell. There was no sign of a webcam or other video monitoring device and the computer had been left on, judging by the quiet hum originating from under the desk. While the computer was waking up, Sherlock slipped his mobile from his pocket and put it on the desktop so it was readily visible just in case Maks sent a warning.

The monitors flickered to life, and Sherlock stared at the password screen for a minute while he mentally flicked through the information from Maks’ bio. Renata Zhilin was in her mid-thirties, had never been married and had no children, which eliminated most of the more obvious password possibilities. Her personal items in the office were mainly mementos that had obviously given to her by Yerzov during her years of service; they were things like paperweights and office accessories, important symbols but of no real personal value. 

Sherlock’s eyes fell on the one truly personal artifact in the room - a framed picture sitting on the top shelf of the nearest bookcase. The picture was of Renata with another woman, who, judging by the strong family resemblance, was her younger sister. They had their arms around each other with huge smiles on their faces, standing on the edge of a large body of water. According to the date stamped in the corner of the picture, it had been taken almost ten years ago. Sherlock stilled as a detail from her file snapped to the front of his memory. Renata’s sister Elena had died eight years ago, killed by a drunk driver in a hit-and-run accident. That must be it. The possible combinations of the sister’s name, birth date and other personal information scrolled through his mind. Sherlock frowned, staring down at the keyboard, as if waiting for the keys themselves would give him the answer. Suddenly it came to him; after entering Elena’s initials and the date stamped on the picture, he hit enter. Nothing happened for a long minute, but just as Sherlock was beginning to think he had gotten the password wrong, the password screen disappeared and the desktop appeared.

Sherlock quickly got to work. A quick glance through the computer registry showed that the IT administrators were somewhat competent; they had disabled USB storage devices and turned on some rudimentary tracking software. He pulled a thumb drive from his pocket; he had loaded the script he had downloaded from Mycroft the day before onto it. After sliding it into one of the slots on the front of the computer, he watched as a window opened and the script began to run. One by one, the security settings on the computer were disabled and in less than a minute, the window disappeared so Sherlock could start searching for the information he needed.

Keeping half an eye on his mobile’s screen, Sherlock started sorting through the contents of the computer. Fortunately, Renata Zhilin was a woman who kept her computer almost compulsively organized, so it was only a matter of moments to find where she had stored not only the agenda and briefings that were date stamped from this morning, but also the minutes and debrief that had apparently already been circulated to the attendees. There was also a folder labeled Background Information, which contained dozens of word documents and spreadsheets all dated within the last few weeks. There wasn’t time to see what was in them all, but Sherlock copied the whole lot over the USB drive anyway, just to be on the safe side. 

While they were copying, Sherlock switched over to her email client. He bit back a groan when he noticed that she had hundreds of emails in both the in and out boxes. He didn’t have time to even begin sorting through them and there were just too many of them to fit onto the USB drive, so copying everything was out of the question. Just as he had decided that he would have to ignore the emails, Sherlock noticed a folder tree on the left-hand side of the screen. The top folder was labeled “15.2 Briefing” and Sherlock was thrilled to discover that it wasn't password protected. A quick glance inside it revealed a nicely organized collection of almost a hundred emails that seemed to contain relevant information. It only took a couple of quick clicks to bring up a very helpful but little known utility that was buried in most email clients, which soon began to export all the emails in the folder as text files and save them onto the USB drive, as well as any attachments. 

Thirty minutes after sitting down at the computer, Sherlock watched as Mycroft’s script erased all traces that he had been here. Just as it was finishing up, the screen on his mobile flashed. Sherlock’s heart started racing as he saw Maks’ message: _The D string has snapped_. A quick glance out the window behind him showed that Renata Zhilin was walking across the plaza, heading towards the front door. A short keystroke combination sent the computer back to sleep, while Sherlock’s eyes swept the room to make sure he was leaving it in the same condition as he had found it. The USB drive was tucked into a hidden pocket in his coat while the mobile disappeared back into his trouser pocket as he headed towards the door. There wasn't time to respond to Maks now. Locking the door behind him, Sherlock started hurrying back down the hallway as quietly as he could. He had barely taken half a dozen steps, however, before the lift bell broke the silence, followed quickly by the sound of the door sliding open. How had she gotten up here so fast?

The only room that he knew for sure that was unlocked was the conference room, so he ducked back inside and closed the door completely behind him. A quick look around the room revealed a door he hadn't even noticed before. Pulling it open, he was relieved to see a storage cupboard, with just enough room for him inside. He didn't dare close the door completely behind him, but he pulled it almost completely shut, leaving just enough of a gap so he could hear whatever Renata was doing in the building. He could just make out Renata’s voice as she walked down the hallway, apparently talking to someone on her mobile. Unfortunately, he couldn't make out what she was saying, so there was no way to know if this was just a quick trip to pick up something forgotten or if she was planning on working for a while. 

He heard the door of her office open and then it became even harder to hear what was going on, since the supply closet was on the far side of the conference room from her office. While he waited, Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket; Maks had sent several more texts, each a little more urgent-sounding until Maks had abandoned the code entirely.

_The sky is very red._

_Status. NOW._

_Update please._

_If no response in five minutes, I’m coming in._

Sherlock spared a little eye-roll as he typed out a response, while listening to the muffled sounds coming from Renata’s office.

_Holding while a flight plan is approved._

Just as he finished sending the text, Sherlock heard the sound of Renata’s office door opening and closing again. He held his breath as he listed to her muffled footsteps fade down the hallway and a few seconds later, the lift bell rang broke the silence yet again. Sherlock forced himself to wait, even after he heard the lift doors close. It was another two full minutes before the all-clear text from Maks sent the stress of the last few minutes rushing from his body. He sat in the closet for a few more minutes, waiting for his heart to stop skipping in his chest. That had been entirely too close to disaster. Once his breathing was back to normal, Sherlock let himself out of the closet. He paused at the hallway door for another minute to make sure the floor was still deserted. As soon as he knew it was safe, he slid out of the conference room and headed back to the staircase, keen to put as much distance between himself and this narrow escape as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone who is sticking with this story. I promise we will eventually get to the parts of the story hinted at in the tags. It's just taking longer than I thought it would to arrive at that part of the story. (I keep saying that, I know, but it's the truth!)
> 
> Let me know what you think - all feedback is welcome! My next update should be next weekend.


	13. Chapter 13

**February 14**

The brisk night air was a welcome blast to Sherlock's skin as he stepped from the building into the cold, clear night; the sudden temperature helped clear some of the fog from his mind. The sudden, loud click of the door locking behind him caused his whole body to jerk in alarm; in the stillness of the quiet plaza, it had sounded more like a shot from a gun rather than a lock securing itself. His body still ringing with tension from the narrow escape upstairs, Sherlock startled and looked around, half expecting to see a guard closing in on him, summoned by the loud click. The strain from the narrow escape in Zhilin's office was making him see threats everywhere. Sherlock could feel his body starting to shut down; all he wanted to do at this moment was find a place where he could sit down and rest for a few minutes, to give his body and mind time to come back online. 

Unfortunately, giving in to that desire would be a spectacularly bad idea. He might have made it outside the building safely, but he was still in the middle of the government complex. Lingering was a surefire way to get arrested. He needed to get away from the area as quickly as possible, without drawing attention to himself. After another quick glance around, Sherlock made up his mind and headed towards the south side of the complex, which just happened to be in the opposite direction of Maks' hiding spot as well as the flat. He might not be operating at peak efficiency, but he was functioning well enough to know that he shouldn't head directly back in case he was being followed.

A nearby church bell was just beginning to strike the hour as Sherlock crossed the street on the edge of the complex. With a variety of restaurants and bars on this side of the street, there was a large crowd on the sidewalk, all seemingly intent on their Friday night plans rather than what Sherlock was doing. Once he blended into the crowd, Sherlock started to pick up snippets of the conversations around him. He grimaced as he realized that every single person on the street was talking about the Olympics yet again. Everyone’s obsession with those ridiculous athletic contests was becoming highly irritating. The chatter around him tonight seemed to be even more frenetic than usual; the reason for this became clear soon enough. Tomorrow was the hockey match between Russia and the United States, which, of course, was one of the most anticipated events of the whole shebang. Perfect, Sherlock thought as he dodged another large group standing in the middle of the sidewalk. With everyone focused on that, it might be easier to get this information started on its way back to Mycroft and Nikov.

Technically, he knew he wasn't just reporting all this information back to his brother. One of Mycroft's peers was technically in charge of the region. However, Sherlock was sure that his brother was keeping an attentive eye on his well-being. He wouldn’t be able to help himself, even though it wouldn’t really change Sherlock’s circumstances in the slightest. Mycroft had been explicitly clear in the days between Christmas and New Years that the machinations that were keeping him out of prison couldn't be extended to saving his life. Sherlock wasn't hoping for a last-minute reprieve. 

But for once in his life, Sherlock had stopped trying to tweak his brother's nose or undermine his authority. In a way, Mycroft's surprising admission from Christmas day had put some of their decades-long feud to rest. _Your loss would break my heart._ Sherlock was pretty sure that admission had been as emotional as Mycroft would ever allow himself to be. It was the memory of those words that encouraged Sherlock to include those old code phrases in every report they transmitted, even six weeks after his departure. His actions were sentiment personified, but Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He wanted to give his brother whatever reassurance he could before it was all over.

The shout of a traffic warden brought Sherlock back to the present with a start. This was hardly the ideal place to take a wander through his memories. _Reckless, Sherlock_ his brother’s voice purred at him from the back of his brain. A smirk crossed his face before he forced it away; it wasn’t the time or place for that kind of introspection. A glance around showed that he was heading in the general direction of the flat. As he weaved his way through the crowded streets, he kept looking for signs that he was being followed. Fortunately, there wasn’t any suggestion that any of the people around him were paying him any attention at all.

It was more than ten minutes later when Sherlock locked the flat door behind him. Leaning against it, he finally allowed himself to fully relax as he looked around the empty room. The adrenaline remaining from almost being discovered finally started to fade away, leaving him exhausted and limp in its wake. Shrugging off his coat and throwing it in the direction of a chair, Sherlock collapsed onto the empty bed. It might be a while before Maks was able to make it back; he had said that he might meet with a contact or two on the way back. Staring up at the greyish ceiling above him, Sherlock let himself slip into his mind palace, hoping that some time spent lost in his mind would allow his body to filter out the stress and leave him in peak analytical form.

The sound of the key in the lock brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. The clock on the bedside table showed that it was almost 9; Maks must have met up with at least one of his contacts to be getting back so much later than Sherlock. As he sat up, Sherlock watched Maks edge through the door and kick it shut behind him. The sight of the carry-out containers in his hands made Sherlock smirk; he should have known. Maks and John were very similar in some ways, especially when it came to their stomachs.

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are a very fortunate man,” the other man said as he placed the food on the table. Sherlock just raised his eyebrow in response. “That was entirely too close for my peace of mind.”

"Mine too," Sherlock admitted as he joined the other man at the table. "I was beginning to wonder where you had gone. I thought you might have met up with a contact."

Maks gestured to the food. "Unfortunately, nothing quite that interesting happened. All of my contacts were otherwise unavailable, at any rate. Besides, not all of us can subsist on air and brain power." Sherlock grunted; it was the only acknowledgement that he was willing to give. He watched in silence as the other man dug around in the cabinet behind him, eventually pulling out utensils and plates. Silence fell as the two men dug into the food; Sherlock might not like to eat while working, but the stress of this afternoon had left him feeling empty. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock had eaten enough to keep him going, and he was anxious to start sorting through the contents of the flash drive. Maks was still eating, but he was running out of patience. After dumping his dirty dishes in the sink, Sherlock pulled the netbook out from his bag under the bed. As it booted, Sherlock retrieved the flash drive from his coat. Sherlock considered the innocent looking piece of plastic in his hand as he twirled it between his fingers. He just hoped that he had retrieved some worthwhile information; there hadn't been time in the office to sort through the documents after all. A soft chime from the netbook indicated that the security software had finished loading; Sherlock hitched a deep breath. It was time to see if he had caught anything significant in his net.

\----

Five hours later, Sherlock ran his fingers through his short hair for what felt like the hundredth time. It felt like they had gone from one extreme to the other in a very short amount of time. After weeks of struggling through a paucity of actionable intelligence, they were suddenly drowning in details. He had managed to copy over a hundred documents and spreadsheets from Zhilin’s computer and had gone though only about half of them. So far, unfortunately, the information he had found was all falling into the ‘interesting but not necessarily relevant’ category. They were still sadly lacking in any concrete evidence of Putin's plans for the Crimean Peninsula. That wasn't terribly surprising; Putin was extremely guarded on the most mundane matters of government. Plans like these would be guarded tighter than Mycroft guards his emotions. 

The agenda for the meeting revealed that the attendees had covered four major topics in those few hours this afternoon. The first two sections of the meeting had echoed the information Sherlock had found in Temryuk. The first portion had centered on troop allocations and positions inside southwestern Russia. The largest subsection of the documents had gone into excruciatingly depth about the number and types of troops in the area. It was far more detail than Sherlock required for his plans, even if it would be useful to some of Mycroft’s colleagues. No doubt some poor agent in MI6 would be assigned to sort through all the drivel, in the hopes of ferreting out nuggets of useful information. 

The second portion of the agenda had focused on the ongoing unrest inside Ukraine. It hadn't changed much in the last week since Maks had checked in with his fisherman friend; the unrest in the nation was growing, fueled by the growing divide between the wishes of the people and the President with his pro-Russian leanings. The police crackdown that had been devised to stop the protesting had backfired. Protestors still occupied many of the government buildings in Kiev and showed no sign of relenting. There didn’t appear to be any end to the conflict in sight, unless something drastic happened.

The third section of the agenda had been a new one, although it wasn’t necessarily pertinent to Sherlock’s mission. There was significant information on the actions of the Russian government to shore up the current Presidency. It showed the various financial and legislative concessions Russia had made to shore up an unpopular, but Pro-Russian President. Again, it was something Mycroft’s minions would spend great delight poring over, but it meant very little to Sherlock other than show that they were on the right track.

The final area the meeting had covered was the most pertinent to Sherlock’s immediate future. The agenda and minutes revealed that there were at least several dozen counter-intelligence and undercover military officers embedded inside this region of Russia. The data went back for only about three months, but even in that short time frame, the number of Special Forces in southwestern Russia had more than quadrupled. Of course, it was natural to assume that a good number of those operatives were focused on controlling the situation down in Sochi. However, scattered here and there in the information were hints that at least several of these agents had been positioned on the Crimean peninsula. It reaffirmed the information from Maks’ friend on the peninsula that there were more Russians around than there had been before the uprising had started. There were no particulars about their mission, but even if they were just observing now, it would be foolish to assume they couldn’t switch tactics very, very quickly.

A sound from across the room pulled Sherlock from the files momentarily. Maks had succumbed to exhaustion a couple of hours ago. He sat there a minute, pondering his sleeping companion. Sherlock had a feeling that Maks’ personal history with the Russian government might be flaring into focus. While he had been awake, Maks’ curses had punctuated his progress, especially when he had been going through the information on the Ukrainian unrest. Maks had proven to be a competent ally on this mission so far. But if Maks’ personal history was starting to come into play, then Sherlock would have to decide if his insights into the Russian government were in danger of becoming a liability instead of an asset.

Rubbing his eyes slightly, Sherlock turned back to the laptop. He didn’t need to make that decision yet, but he knew that, in all likelihood, he would have to leave Maks behind soon, possibly sooner than he had originally planned. But there was still time before he had to decide that. First thing first; there were still half of documents to sort through before they could make any decisions.

\----

The sky outside their small window had just started to acquire a pre-dawn pink hue when Maks finally stirred on the bed. Sherlock was relieved; several times over the last couple of hours, he had been tempted to wake the other man up, just to have someone to use as a sounding board. The memory of John’s anger when Sherlock had done that back in London had been the only thing that had stopped him. The surplus of information running around in his head was driving him mad, though. Sherlock wished he could print the files out and start arranging them on the wall. Unfortunately, they lacked a printer, not to mention that disposing of that much information would be extremely difficult. 

“Any luck?” Maks asked, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Well, there’s a lot of information others will no doubt find interesting, but only a small portion is really useful to us.” He began pacing out of habit, desperate to find some way to help his brain sort through it all.

“Your friend’s hunch that there are more Russians in Crimea than typical is probably true. There’s too much specific information about what is happening, particularly in Sevastopol, to be simply the product of wire reports.”

“Boris usually has a good grasp of what is going on,” Maks remarked as he stretched and pulled himself upright. “Still no specifics on Putin’s plan?”

“He’s obviously interested in keeping the current president in power, to no one’s surprise.” Sherlock answered as his pacing slowed slightly. “The language in the meeting minutes echoes what we’ve found elsewhere. He’s emphasizing the threats to native Russians abroad and the need to act to protect their interests abroad. But there’s nothing specific; no timelines, no specific objectives, nothing at all like that.”

“But given the attention he’s paying to the region, combined with the growing number of troops he’s stationed within a day or so of the conflict zone,” Maks interjected, running a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair, “we can safely assume he definitely has a plan. It’s highly unlikely that we are misreading the signs here.”

“That’s true. There’s just too much circumstantial information for it all to be a coincidence.” Sherlock growled in frustration. If only they had managed to find something concrete, anything at all that would show them where the next move was likely to happen. 

“Well, the first step, I think, is to get all this information to the people who can analyze it properly,” Maks suggests, staring down at the worn floorboards. “Nikov and your brother need to see this as soon as possible.”

“Do we use your fisherman friend again? Or is there another route you’d rather use?” 

“Boris might be slightly more trustworthy and discrete,” Maks answered tentatively, obviously thinking through the possibilities, “but it might be better to get this into the official channels sooner than he can manage the trip.”

“Does that mean going back to Belarus to meet with Nikov?”

“I don’t have to go quite that far back. There’s someone in mainland Ukraine I trust to handle the information if I can get it in her hands.”

“How long will that take?” Sherlock asked as he leaned against the wall next to the fridge. Having the slightest inkling of a plan was enough to stop his pacing. 

“A couple of days to get there safely by the land route. Probably shouldn’t risk the sea crossing with that kind of information in tow. Plus,” Maks admitted a little hesitantly, “I need to be careful on the peninsula. There are ... factions … there that wouldn’t take kindly to seeing me.” Sherlock froze, wondering if Maks was going to bring up his mysterious past.

“I’m sure you’ve deduced some of it,” Maks said with a wry smile. “My father was heavily involved in the Ukrainian independence movement in the 1990s. He was very vocal and public about the need to separate from the Soviet Union. Even though it was a wildly popular movement, there were certain clusters of the population that were pretty unhappy with his activities, particularly in the pro-Russian areas of Crimea. In 2004, my father disappeared during the chaos that followed the disputed presidential election. His body was found days later; he had been shot through the head. The police never made any arrests, but there were rumors, obviously. The pro-Russian crowd cheered his death. It’s not hard to draw a conclusion.” Maks lapsed into silence and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He had never been good in these situations; he had relied on John’s ability to deal with others. So he just stared at his feet and let the uncomfortable silence grow.

It took a few minutes, but Maks eventually got up from the bed, headed for the small bathroom. Sherlock sighed as the door clicked shut. He hated these situations. But, he thought wryly, he had found the way he could separate from Maks without too much argument. It was obvious that the other man couldn’t really step foot into Crimea. The other man would argue about it – his pride would demand that he accompany Sherlock to the end. But if he could leverage Maks’ history into concern for the mission and Sherlock’s safety, he had a winning argument. Just then, the bathroom door opened and the other man emerged, thankfully looking much more collected than when he had entered.

But just as Sherlock opened his mouth, Maks preempted him. “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t come into Crimea with you.” Sherlock froze with his mouth open, more than a little surprised that the other man had guessed his plan. “I’m not abandoning you just yet, however,” he continued stubbornly.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’ll need a way to get information out of the peninsula and into the right hands. Once I meet my contact, I’ll head towards Odessa. It’s a city that Boris uses frequently in his fishing business. You can feed him information and he can get it to me.” Sherlock nodded slowly, running through the dangers in his head. There were a lot of potential pitfalls, but it achieved his goal of keeping Maks out of the conflict zone. 

“How soon do we move?”

“I need to get a message to Boris. It’s Saturday now,” Maks said, obviously just thinking aloud as he considered the possibilities. “We’ll arrange for him to meet you in Ilyich at dawn on Tuesday. I leave today to meet my contact near Mariupol’, on the north coast of the Sea of Azov.” 

“When will you get to Odessa?” Sherlock asked as he watched the other agent start to gather his belongings. 

“I’ll be in Odessa by late on Tuesday, I hope, baring a lot of complications at the borders.” 

“How will I know if you’re there safely?”

“I do have one trusted friend in Sevastopol, other than Boris.” Maks riffled through his pack, pulling out a folded sheet of paper and handing it over. “Here’s his information and where to find him. I’ll let him know to look out for you when I arrange for Boris to meet you. I can get a message to him pretty easily without arousing too much suspicion.” 

Sherlock nodded, giving the paper a brief once over. Alexey Tupolov, a car mechanic, seemed like an easy enough person to find. Hopefully he was as trustworthy as Maks believed. 

Within a few minutes, the door had shut behind Maks, leaving Sherlock alone in the tiny flat. It was strange; he had been so concerned about keeping the other man from following him to his death, but it had been Maks who had come up with the plan that had escaped Sherlock. Looking around the dingy efficiency flat one more time, Sherlock realized that he was going to miss Maks much more than he had thought. It was strange – but for a man who had proclaimed that being alone protected him, he was missing quite a few people lately. It had been decades since he had felt this lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I apologize for this being later than I had promised. This chapter fought back pretty hard. (Plus I lost a day watching the College Football National Championship game - but hey, my alma mater won! Go Buckeyes!)
> 
> I probably won't have another update until the 24th or 25th at this point. I'm planning on taking a day or so to make sure I still have a handle on everything going on with these characters before I continue writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading! All feedback is welcome!


	14. Chapter 14

**February 14, 2014**

The solid, metallic click of his office door latching had never been so welcome. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, savoring the silence and attempting to let some of the aggravation clogging his brain dissipate. There were meetings he enjoyed, where the agendas and decisions had the potential to truly shape the future of the nation. Unfortunately, this last one definitely had fallen well outside that realm of importance; instead of complex scenarios and decisions, this conference had been filled with petty grievances and motives.

Usually, Mycroft was able to delegate these meetings to any of his more-than-capable subordinates. Unfortunately, MP Stonewall had managed to escalate the petty bickering over a municipal airport expansion into a potential national security crisis; at least, that was the impression several of Mycroft’s colleagues had been operating under. _Someone save me from the petty concerns of minor politicians, especially those with transparent personal financial agendas,_ Mycroft thought wryly. It had taken over an hour to convince this particular MP that MI5 wasn’t about to step in and stop the expansion, especially at the urging of a lone and biased protester.

A glance at the wall clock reassured Mycroft that he had a short break before his next appointment. The next meeting wasn’t much better, but at least it concerned a genuine threat, not a manufactured one. The leather of his executive chair creaked slightly as he leaned further back, the complete silence in his office soothing to his nerves after such an irritating meeting. It was a few minutes before a knock on the door broke the stillness; Anthea entered after a moment, her trusty mobile in one hand and a manila envelope in the other.

“Thank you, Anthea, for including Stonewall’s financial conflict of interest in your brief. It was tremendously helpful.” This was one of the times that Mycroft wondered what he would ever do should his ever-capable assistant decided to seek employment elsewhere. She had uncovered financial documents that linked Stonewall to a property development company who had been contesting the expansion plan so they could develop it themselves. The meeting had ended quickly once Mycroft had shared that information with the rest of the committee.

A brief nod of her head was the only acknowledgement she gave. “This just arrived for you, sir.” She handed him the thick, plain envelope she was carrying, sparing no more than a quick glance at her boss’s face before returning her attention to her phone. “You have thirty minutes available now before your next appointment. Also, Lady Smallwood is requesting half an hour of your time at 4:30 today.”

“Interesting. Did she give a reason?”

“She only indicated it was of prime importance and this afternoon was the only vacancy in her diary for the next fortnight. Shall I confirm with her?” Mycroft thought for a moment. He was still treading very carefully around many of his colleagues, hoping to keep them in the dark about his plans for his brother. It was going to be challenging to convince most of them to commute Sherlock’s fate when the time came. If they got wind that he was monitoring the region so closely, it could influence their cooperation when it became time for action.

Lady Smallwood, however, wasn't quite as much of an obstacle, as far as Mycroft was concerned. Since she had a personal history with Magnussen (and had, indeed, been the person who had brought Sherlock onto the case in the first place), Mycroft was sure she would side with him. Under other circumstances, he might have considered it crass to use any guilt she might be experiencing to bring her into his camp. But ensuring the continued existence of his brother was more important than diplomacy. So he nodded his agreement.

“Please.” Just has Anthea was turning back to her office, inspiration struck Mycroft. “See if she would be amenable to meeting at the Diogenes club instead of my office, however. I was planning on heading there for the afternoon directly after this meeting.” Anthea nodded without turning back to face him. A minute later, the latch clicked shut again and Mycroft was once again left in peace. Sitting in the silence of his office, he admitted to himself that, under normal circumstances, he would have dealt more carefully with MP Stonewall. Offending those with the ears of the powerful, which Stonewall definitely had to have escalated the matter this far, was something he usually tried to avoid at all costs. But today of all days, there were more important things happening in the world than the mostly inconsequential political and financial meddling of a truly minor government official.

Today was the 14th of February. According to the information provided by Ivan Nikov, a major military briefing was taking place today in Krasnodar. Sherlock hadn't provided many details about his plans, but Mycroft was sure that he and his partner were in the city as well, attempting to discover Putin's agenda. This was too tempting an opportunity to pass up; it was their first chance to confirm that the Russian president did indeed have a plan for the region. There was no way Sherlock would skip this opportunity, not if he was taking this mission seriously, which it certainly appeared that they were. 

Just yesterday afternoon, he had received notification that someone had accessed the files stored on his private server. A quick check of the activity log indicated that the transmission had almost certainly originated in southwestern Russia. While he couldn't be one hundred percent sure who it had been, the image that had been uploaded could only have come from one person. The Irish Setter puppy in the photograph was the spitting image of Redbeard. A soft smile formed on Mycroft’s face; it was obviously sentiment that had made Sherlock pick that particular image, but for once, he wasn’t upset with his brother. The hidden clues in the reports were nice, but for the first time in weeks, Mycroft had a little peace of mind. His brother was still in a great deal of danger, but he seemed to be coping with the stresses and difficulties of this mission.

Mycroft swallowed back a growl of frustration. Within his office, he possessed all the tools that would have allowed Sherlock to uncover everything that was discussed at the meeting. He had listening devices that would allow someone to eavesdrop from over a mile away. The Belarus and Ukraine intelligence departments almost certainly didn't have anything that sophisticated. Sherlock would be extremely lucky to lay his hands on a simple recording device. Mycroft had debated equipping Sherlock with all the tools at his disposal before he departed, of course, but his concerns for his brother's safety had taken priority over ensuring the success of the mission. If Sherlock was captured in Russia while carrying what were obviously English tools for espionage, it would have catastrophic and probably fatal consequences.

He sat and stared at his desktop for a minute, lost in his concerns for his brother's welfare, before the envelope that Anthea provided drew his attention. There were no markings on the outside to indicate what was inside. Pulling the silver letter opener out from his drawer, Mycroft debated for a moment. It wasn't likely that this was one of the reports from Russia; those came in special, subtly-marked envelopes. It only took a moment to slice open the end the envelope. There were only a handful of pages inside. Mycroft frowned as he pulled them out.

A minute later, his concentration deepened. The pages in front of him were the preliminary reports from the exhumation of the body they had recovered from the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital four years ago. The first document was the coroner's initial report from the autopsy. The contents of the report were quite interesting. There were a few minor scars in unremarkable places; everyone picked up the odd mark or two over their lifetime. They weren't unique enough to make a positive identification, however. Mycroft frowned; the Adler affair had proven that using physical measurements were not an infallible method to identify a body, especially one that was well-connected with the criminal world.

The coroner had determined that the cause of death was indeed the gunshot wound to the head, not that there was much doubt. The skull had a substantial hole that ran from the mouth through the center of the brain stem. The victim would have died instantly with this amount of damage. The left hand showed signs of blowback blood spatter, which the coroner had noted was consistent with this type of wound. There were also appropriate amounts of gun powder residue intermixed with the blood spatter. There were no other injuries of significance and the coroner indicated that there were no signs of foreign substances in the victim's bloodstream. The final note on the report indicated that DNA testing had been started, but the results wouldn't be available for a few weeks yet.

The only area that wasn’t conclusive on report was the time of death. The coroner couldn’t pin it down to a specific date after all this time. They had only been able to note that there was no evidence to indicate that the body had been dead for a significant period of time before it had been recovered from the rooftop and placed into storage. The coroner had concluded that while they couldn’t confirm the identity of the body at this point in the investigation, there also wasn’t evidence to imply that the body wasn’t James Moriarty’s. 

The frown on Mycroft's face deepened as he turned to the second document in the folder: the preliminary ballistics report. As with the autopsy, it contained no evidence that pointed to a cover up or trick; everything the technicians had found was consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound through the mouth. The angle of the wound matched Sherlock's rundown of events and the gun had trace amounts of blood on the muzzle. 

The final document was the report from Anthea, who had been placed in charge of examining the hospital’s rooftop. Unfortunately, and through no fault of hers, this was report with the most question marks. In the past few years, there had been a series of renovations made to the building, which had included changes to the rooftop. As a result, any missed evidence about the confrontation had been removed over the intervening years. There hadn’t been signs of substantial changes to that particular section of roof, but Anthea was waiting to hear back from the general contractor to confirm the exact changes.

It was frustrating that they still couldn’t make a definite determination about whose body had been recovered that day. Mycroft had been hoping that there would be at least enough information by this point in the investigation to make an educated guess. The biggest drawback was that they were still weeks away from receiving the DNA test results. So far, he had resisted the temptation to make this investigation a high priority, which would move the tests up to the top of priority list. Doing so, however, would draw attention to the investigation and no doubt bring questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer at this time. Since this case was likely to be the linchpin in any efforts to repeal Sherlock’s exile, Mycroft wanted to make sure his evidence was incontrovertible before he began stating his case.

Sitting back in his chair for a moment, Mycroft debated how he should proceed. They had taken fingerprints and saliva from Moriarty when he had been in custody, naturally. Once the results from the body on rooftop were available, they should be able to say definitively who was in the morgue. The test results from four years ago were stored in a high-security vault; so far, Mycroft had not requested them, again to delay any questions about why he was interested in them. He was well and truly stuck in a holding pattern, which was one place that Mycroft Holmes truly hated to be. 

With a final sigh, Mycroft slipped all the papers back into the envelope. So far, the evidence had ruled out only the most obvious deceptions. It was a start, but there was a long way to go, particularly if he was to use the graffiti cases as an impetus to bring Sherlock home. The investigation into the Kingman drug syndicate had hit a roadblock. The suspect in the double homicide hadn’t been convicted yet, so it was impossible for Mycroft’s agents to bring him in for questioning. Doing so would be an obvious sign, not only to the drug syndicate but also their associates, that the government was interested in their activities. 

Mycroft sighed in frustration. He had hoped, maybe a bit naively, that he would have made more progress in assembling the evidence in these investigations by now. A knock on the door interrupted his musing; a glance at the clock showed he only had a few minutes before his next appointment. Another aggravated sigh escaped as he gathered the reports and moved to lock them away before the next group of politicians arrived.

\----

Several hours later, Mycroft sat at a desk in an office at the Diogenes Club, the latest intelligence report from Eastern Europe spread over the polished wood surface. It wasn’t from his brother, so he didn’t bother looking for any hidden key phrases. This report had been written by an agent stationed in Kiev, detailing the latest developments in the unrest shaking the nation. Once he was finished, Mycroft leaned back in the chair, a tired hand coming up to rub his temple; tension caused a dull throb in his head most days lately. He was becoming consumed with the details of events near his brother. If he wasn't careful, other officials were bound to notice.

Of course, his stress levels weren't helped by the fact that there hadn't been any reports from Sherlock or Maks Lysenko in the official channels in almost a week. The only reassurance he had that his brother was still alive was that picture on his server; if it hadn't been for that, Mycroft was sure he would be going spare with worry. The situation in Ukraine was growing more desperate by the day. The current President was doing everything possible to cling to power, no doubt fueled by concerns that his misappropriation of funds would be discovered. Over the last year or so, the man had definitely taken a leaf from Vladimir Putin's rule book: pocket all the money you possibly can while no one was looking.

A knock on the door caused Mycroft to jerk slightly. A quick swipe of his arm was enough to gather up the documents on the desk. As he was sliding them back into his attaché case, he called out for the person knocking to enter. A uniformed steward poked his head far enough into the room to say that Lady Smallwood's car was arriving.

"Please bring her up without delay. Could I also have a tea tray delivered?"

"Of course, Sir. Do you require anything else?"

"No thank you, Anthony." He sighed again as the door closed. Anthea hadn't been able to acquire any more information about what was so important. It made him wary; Lady Smallwood generally wasn’t one who practiced subterfuge. She played her cards well, yes, but she wasn’t one to be deliberately deceptive. 

Only a minute or so passed before another knock sounded on the closed door; it opened a moment later to reveal the impeccable figure of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, followed by Anthony with the requested tea tray. Elizabeth was dressed as tastefully as ever, in a black suit suitable for a grieving widow. Outwardly, she was still the same confident woman who had risen meteorically through the ranks of the government. It was only if you looked closely at her eyes that you could see the slightest hint that the last few months had been difficult for her. The suicide of her husband had left her slightly deflated, which Mycroft supposed was only natural. Sentiment and all that.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet here, Lady Smallwood," Mycroft began as he gestured her towards a wingback chair on the other side of the room. Neither of them spoke while Mycroft served the tea. It was only after he had sat in the chair opposite that she broke the silence.

"I'm relieved you were free today, Mycroft," she began, sounding somewhat tentative to Mycroft's surprise. "If I can be completely honest, I was pleasantly surprised when your assistant relayed your suggestion to meet here."

"I admit that your secrecy is most intriguing, Elizabeth." She grimaced in response; such machinations were usually beneath her. She was obviously struggling with how to broach her topic; it was fascinating. In Mycroft’s experience, Elizabeth Smallwood was exceedingly direct. It was more than a minute before she continued, more cautiously than was her usual habit.

"First off, I know you’ve been following the developments in Russia fairly closely," she began with an apologetic look. Mycroft began to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not judging you, Mycroft. If you weren’t watching what happened to your brother, I’d have been surprised. I will admit that I have been following his mission fairly closely as well. After all, I was the person who involved him in that despicable affair."

"I appreciate your discretion," Mycroft replied while hiding his expression behind his tea cup. He didn't want her to see his relief; he was fairly certain now that she would be an ally when it came time to argue on Sherlock's behalf. He watched as she reached down into her bag, and pulled out a dossier.

"This arrived this morning, through an unusual courier route," Elizabeth continued, running her hand over the edge of the envelope in an idle fashion. "The contents of the package made the reason for the special delivery apparent." She paused to take a sip of tea, while Mycroft eyed the sealed envelope perched in her lap. "It seems your brother carried out a sting operation in Temryuk last week, one that netted some highly useful pieces of intelligence."

Mycroft hid behind his tea cup again, this time to mask his pleasure at Sherlock's success. It was a shame his brother had never developed an inclination for government work. Together, they could have been an unstoppable team.

"I’m not going to waste time telling you the specifics; you can go through the brief yourself once I’ve left. However, there was one document in the package that was obviously meant for your eyes only." Mycroft froze as she pulled another envelope from her case. Even from this distance, he recognized his name in the handwriting of Maks Lysenko.

"I can assure you that the contents of this envelope were not included in the official dossier, which has already been passed onto the analysts. I am the only person who has seen them and no copies have been made." She passed both envelopes over, and Mycroft forced himself to put them on the table next to him. The urge to see what was inside the envelope from Maks was almost overwhelming.

"Again, I thank you for your discretion," he responded, wondering just how much detail to divulge at this time. But Lady Smallwood cleared her throat softly, pulling Mycroft's attention back to her.

"You may claim to not be driven by outbursts of brotherly sentiment, but we both know that this isn't exactly true." A knowing look passed between them. In many ways, they were extremely similar. Neither liked to broadcast their emotions, taking great care to bury their feelings, less they become weaknesses.

"One last thing before I depart, Mycroft," she said as she drained the last of her tea. If possible, she sounded even more tentative than before. "As I said, I am responsible for bringing Sherlock into this mess. If I can help resolve the situation satisfactorily…” She trailed off, but Mycroft understood. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak as an unaccustomed wave of sentiment washed over him.

With that, she put her teacup back on the tray and left. Mycroft sat in the chair for a minute, swamped under the unexpected feeling of relief that was running through him. He had been hoping for her support, but receiving explicit confirmation of it had caught him by surprise. 

Suddenly, he snapped to attention as he remembered the second envelope. Inside was a single page covered in Maks’ handwriting. The page trembled in his hands, giving away the fact that he was shaking as he started to read. The letter had been dated six days previously.

_I hope this finds you well. I’m pleased to report that your brother is in high spirits, although he gets homesick occasionally. He’s also a bit frustrated by the lack of progress we’re making towards his diploma, but there’s been some headway on that recently. I will miss him once he graduates in the next few weeks. I’ll write soon and let you know when he’s ready for the next step._

Mycroft sank back in the chair, his eyes closed to hold back the flood of emotions. It wasn’t much, but he still had to fight back the tears of relief that were threatening. Between this and the photograph his brother had left him, it felt like a yoke of anxiety had been removed from his shoulders. Proof that his brother was thriving in his current situation was the best news that he could have received today.

Once he had gathered himself, Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea and reached for the other dossier. He felt a smile grow across his face as he studied the information his brother had managed to locate in a courthouse in southwestern Russia. The level of detail that he had managed to stumble on was astounding. His cup of tea sat on the table, cooling and forgotten as Mycroft studied the report, being sure to note the coded phrases Sherlock had interspersed throughout it. He wasn’t sure he had ever been as proud of his brother as he was right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments and feedback. I do appreciate hearing what you all think of my 'little' story.
> 
> Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter up next weekend.


	15. Chapter 15

**February 18**

As his car slipped through the streets of London, Mycroft allowed himself to slump against the back of the seat, his eyes closing to shut out the world outside the windows. The hum of car engine soothed his tattered nerves, helping block out the noises from everyone else going about their daily lives. The last few days had been particularly tense, even by his standards. Being able to count on the support of Lady Smallwood was extremely relieving, true, but it didn't solve any of his immediate problems. There weren't any new leads in the graffiti investigation and there hadn't been any new reports from Sherlock and Maks. Since it was a Monday, Mycroft was hoping that the lack of new information was because of the weekend and not any significant setbacks.

The ringing of his mobile broke the stillness of the luxurious interior. A growl of frustration escaped his lips before he could stop it; he was glad that, for once, his assistant wasn't in the car with him. Anthea had been left back at the office to chase the daily intelligence reports, including those from Eastern Europe. For some unknown reason, they hadn't been delivered early this morning as usual. Mycroft sighed as the phone stopped ringing; they could leave a voicemail. Mycroft hated taking work-related phone calls while in transit.

The voicemail notification never sounded, however; after a minute’s silence, the mobile started ringing again. He stared down at the screen; both calls were from Anthea, but why would she not leave a voicemail? Mycroft couldn't imagine what would cause his ever-vigilant assistant to ignore protocol. She never called twice in a row, not even after the few domestic terror events in recent years. A frown started to darken his face even as he answered the call.

"Yes?" he answered tersely. Silence stretched in the car for a moment as he listened to her terse reply. "What?" he interjected after only a few sentences. He listened again, this time for even shorter before interrupting. "Find out who did it. And how." He disconnected the call and stared down at the screen for a minute. It just wasn't possible. Anthea must be mistaken.

"Thomas," he called out to his driver, "turn on the television." A moment later, the small screen turned on in the back of the driver’s seat. Mycroft stared in horror at the image on the screen. Despite his hopes, Anthea hadn't been mistaken. The face of James Moriarty stared at him on every channel, his animated mouth jumping up and down on that familiar face. It was made even more jarring by the voiceover – the same our words repeated over and over again.

_Did you miss me?_

What did it mean? Was this proof that the Consulting Criminal had managed the seemingly impossible and survived a gunshot wound to the head or was this just the next gambit by his apparent successor? How did this impact the investigation into the suspicious graffiti? That thought made Mycroft pause; it was only a matter of time before Detective Inspector Lestrade saw this footage, if he hadn't already. After a moment's debate, he turned his phone back on and found the number he needed.

\-----

Greg was standing in a crowded pub, leaning up against the bar and watching the football match on the telly. Another giveaway close to the net had him and the rest of the crowd groaning in frustration. Arsenal just wasn’t playing well enough to win the title this year, despite all the usual hype around the team at the start of the season. Staring up at the screen, Greg frowned as static disrupted the picture. What was happening? He couldn’t even remember the last time static had been a problem. Eyes narrowing in annoyance, Greg absent-mindedly tried to remember the last time he had seen that. It had certainly been at least a decade.

A minute later, Greg's idle musing about the picture quality was hastily abandoned as a horribly familiar voice began to talk over the crackle. He knew that voice. It still haunted his nightmares from time to time. Sure enough, a moment later the picture changed and instead of a football match, he was staring at the face of James Moriarty. Terror grew in the pit of stomach as he stared up at a face he had hoped never to see again.

A shattered glass on the other side of the pub broke Greg's trance-like state. Glancing around, he wasn't surprised to see anger and befuddlement on most of the other patrons' faces instead of the fear and panic he was feeling. They didn't have a personal history with the world's only Consulting Criminal, after all. Tossing some bills down on the bar to pay for his drink, Greg grabbed his coat and headed outside. He needed to get on this straight away. But what should he do? Head back to the Yard or try to track down Mycroft? His instinctive course of action - call Sherlock - wasn't a possibility. And despite how proud he was of his team, he just knew that whatever was going on here was likely to be far from their areas of expertise. That left Mycroft Holmes as his best option.

Even as he pulled his mobile from his pocket, it started ringing. _Speak of the devil,_ Greg thought once the name of the caller flashed on the screen.

"Detective Inspector," came the smooth voice of the other man, not even waiting for a greeting. "I hope I haven't caught you at an inconvenient moment."

"I didn't know the government acknowledged such a thing, Mycroft" Greg answered flippantly while fighting to bully his brain into working in a reasonable fashion. He still wasn't one hundred percent convinced that he had really seen that face on the screen.

"I take it you have seen the television?"

"How is he doing it, Mycroft? Is it really Moriarty?"

Mycroft hesitated, and Greg realized the other man didn't know the answers and no doubt hated being put in a position where he would have to admit such a thing.

"I don't want to discuss this over an unsecured phone line. Meet me at the Diogenes Club as soon as possible."

Greg paused for a moment, but before he could ask another question, the call disconnected. He sighed and headed towards where his car was parked around the corner. Just as he was reaching for the door handle, another thought made him stop in his tracks. What about John? Had he seen the footage? It would be even more startling to John, seeing the man who had strapped a Semtex vest on him. Once he was in his car, he sighed, dialing the number and hoping he could get in touch with the other man.

\----

John sank back into his office chair, his ragged sigh echoing in the empty room. He used to be amused by the patients he saw who were convinced they were suffering from some rare disease instead of the common cold. But these days, he was seriously struggling not to yell at every single one of them. In the last week alone, three patients had been convinced they were suffering from bird flu. There really was no accounting for the idiocy of some people.

The tension in his private life was certainly making his fuse shorter. Despite his best efforts, he wasn’t making much progress at letting going of the anger bubbling inside him. He had started writing everything down at night, all the boiling emotions and conflicted feelings that were keeping him awake. Reading the words after he was done just made him feel worse, if that were possible. He was a grown man; he had gone to war and survived the apparent suicide of his best friend. Comrades had been shot dead in front of him in the deserts of Afghanistan. None of that had made him feel as much of a failure as marrying a woman who had lied to him and freezing in the face of Magnussen’s aggression.

Another sigh brought him back from the edge; he stretched, hoping to ease the tension that made his muscles ache. A glance at the clock showed it was almost the end of his shift, thankfully. He had been working more than usual in the last few weeks, and it was beginning to show. He had made a deal with his boss; he would cover now for doctors who were sick or on holiday and in return, he would get a month off after the birth of the baby. As tense as things still were with Mary, he was looking forward to the time he could spend getting to know his daughter. Hopefully, in the process, he would find his way through the emotional wasteland between his wife and himself.

Just as he was slipping on his jacket, his mobile rang which made his heart skip a beat. Mary was at a doctor’s appointment, yet another checkup to make sure she was still on proper side of the preeclampsia danger zone. But the name on the screen made him frown. Why was Greg calling?

“Hey Greg, what’s up?” he answered as he headed for the door.

“John, where are you?”

“Just about to leave the clinic, why?”

“Something’s happened. Is there a telly nearby?” What an odd question, John thought. What doctor had a television inside their office?

“No. Well, there’s one in the waiting room, but that’s it.”

“Go check it out for a minute, then meet me outside. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Before John could answer, Greg hung up. John frowned; that had been really bizarre. What could have rattled Greg enough to call him just to tell him to turn on a television? Shaking his head in confusion, John started walking towards the waiting room. Three steps into the waiting room, however, he stopped, frozen in horror at the image on the screen. He started shaking as the words _“Did you miss me?”_ assaulted his ears in that horribly familiar voice. This just wasn’t possible. It had to be a nightmare. A light tap on his shoulder made John jump. Whirling around, he saw the concerned face of the receptionist, not the psychotic criminal like he had feared.

“Is something wrong, Doctor Watson?” the young woman asked, concern darkening her face. “I’m not sure what’s going on with the telly. I’ve called the building manager, but apparently every set is showing the same thing.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Should I call your wife?”

“No thank you, Denise,” he replied, reeling from the shockwaves slamming through him. “I’m just heading home now; there’s no need to worry her.” He turned and headed towards the front door. As he stepped out of the pavement, he pulled his mobile back out of his pocket. He might not know what was going on, but he knew one person who should.

Calling Mycroft was easier said than done, however; John tried several times, but the phone always went straight to voicemail. He decided not to leave a message, though. What would he say? The honk of a car horn drew John’s attention away from his mobile. Looking around, he smiled tightly as he recognized Greg’s car pulling up to the curb.

“What the hell is going on, Greg?” he demanded as he slid into the passenger seat.

“I’m not sure, John,” Greg replied, glancing out the windows as he maneuvered the car back into the flow of traffic. “We’re heading over to the Diogenes Club to meet with Mycroft.”

“How did this happen? And how did you get in touch with Mycroft? I just tried calling him and it went straight to voicemail.”

“He called me just before I called you.” Greg paused, clearly debating how much to say. “As far as how this happened – I don’t know. There was a situation that developed a few weeks ago that I’ve been helping Mycroft investigate, but I don’t know if it’s related or not.”

“And no one bothered to tell me that James Moriarty wasn’t dead?” John asked angrily.

“It’s not that simple, John,” Greg sighed in response. “We’re almost at the club now. Hopefully Mycroft will be able to fill us both in.”

John sighed, and turned to stare out the window, the knot in his stomach growing by the moment. How could this have happened? Two years ago, when John had finally allowed Sherlock to go into detail about what had happened on the rooftop, he had been definite about what had become of James Moriarty. According to Sherlock, he had shot himself through the mouth. John was no neurosurgeon, true, but even a simple GP and former army doctor knew that type of wound was almost instantly fatal.

He was so lost in thought that John failed to notice that Greg had stopped the car. The slam of the car door brought him back to reality. Shaking his head, John got out and followed Greg through the heavy front doors. They were left to stand in the foyer for only a minute before a uniformed steward appeared. Mycroft was obviously expecting them, since the man didn't ask any questions before showing them to an office upstairs. Another steward joined them at the door bearing a tea tray, causing John to smirk. How very typical; the dead may come back to life, but the niceties couldn't be skipped. John had to bite his cheek to keep from demanding answers while the tea was poured, but once the three of them were alone in the posh office, he couldn't stop the words that exploded out of his mouth.

"What the hell is going on, Mycroft? He's supposed to be dead! You and Sherlock assured me he was dead! So how is he on the telly?" John had to bite the inside of his cheek again to stop the flow of questions. As the edge of his rage evaporated, John had to acknowledge that Mycroft was showing more signs of stress than he had ever seen before. If Mycroft was that stressed, then maybe even he had been surprised by what was happening.

"We don't know, John.” He answered, stress making his voice more brittle than normal. “As I told Gregory a few weeks ago, I personally supervised the removal of the body from the rooftop minutes after Sherlock jumped. It's been stored in a government facility since that time." Mycroft paused to take a sip of his tea.

"A few weeks ago, I began the process of having the body examined; the preliminary autopsy and ballistics reports arrived on Friday. There are no signs that the body in the morgue died in any way other than a gunshot wound through the mouth. Unfortunately, it will be a few weeks before we receive the results of the DNA results."

"Couldn't you put a rush on them?" John demanded.

"I will, now. But, for various reasons, I've been trying to keep this investigation as quiet as possible."

"Wait," John interjected, picking up on something Mycroft had said a minute before. "Why did you start looking at the body a few weeks ago?" He stared at Mycroft, but Greg answered the question.

"Donovan discovered that a few of our recent crime scenes had some suspicious graffiti.” John was fascinated, despite his anger, as Greg told the story of what Donovan had found and where it had lead them.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He demanded once Greg had finished his story. In his hand were photos of the tags, which Mycroft had pulled from a folder on the desk.

“What could you have done, Doctor Watson?” John stiffened at the charge, but before he could protest, Mycroft continued. “Please, I mean no offense, but we had matters well in hand. Gregory was helping me discover which locations had been tagged and my people were attempting to link the crimes and trace the perpetrators. So far, there have only been those four linked crime scenes. Only one of them, a drug bust, had that second tag; it’s only that piece of art which gave us any reason to suspect that this had any connection with James Moriarty. However, despite that tag, the most likely theory until an hour ago was that these crimes were simply being carried out by a fragment of the network that had survived Sherlock’s purge.”

“So now what do we do?” John asked after a moment. “If Jim Moriarty is really behind all this, shouldn’t you be bringing Sherlock back home?”

“You know it’s not that easy, John.” Mycroft replied with a sigh as his long fingers came up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why not?”

“Because the events that lead to Sherlock’s departure haven’t been erased, John,” he replied tiredly. John felt his shoulders slump at that response.

“What events?” Greg asked in the silence, and John froze; Mycroft had warned him specifically that Greg could never be told, since his job would require him to investigate. John met Mycroft’s eyes, wondering how little they could tell to appease him. After a moment, Mycroft finally began to speak.

“Everything you will hear from this point out cannot leave this room and will not ever enter into the Scotland Yard's jurisdiction. Is that understood, Gregory?" Greg nodded slowly, obviously intrigued by the caveat. "As you guessed the last time you were here, Sherlock was sent abroad as a direct result of something he did." Mycroft paused a moment, fixing the Detective Inspector with a measuring stare.

"You are, naturally, aware of the death of one Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"Media magnate who died of 'natural causes' in his home on Christmas Day." Greg answered promptly.

"Correct - except that natural causes part." John couldn’t quite contain the quiet groan that escaped and Greg shot him a questioning look before turning back to Mycroft. "Sherlock and Doctor Watson had gone to meet him in the hopes of resolving a delicate situation that had arisen between the Watsons and Magnussen. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the meeting revealed that he had made several massive miscalculations.” John looked down at his lap. The horror and powerlessness of that meeting still lingered painfully. “Sherlock got himself trapped, and the only way he could get out was to resort to brute force.”

“Let me guess - that Sig that I’m not supposed to know about?” Greg asked with a wry smile.

“I have no idea what gun you are referring to, Gregory,” Mycroft replied smoothly, a knowing smile spreading on his face. John fought the need to squirm. “Unfortunately, the resolution of the confrontation was witnessed not only by myself and Doctor Watson, but a dozen MI5 agents. That, combined with Magnussen’s public status, made it impossible for Sherlock’s actions to be erased. I made an arrangement with my colleagues that would keep Sherlock from being prosecuted, but there still needed to be consequences.”

“Consequences? You sound like a parent trying to tell a 5-year-old he can’t steal another kid’s lolly.” John interjected bitterly. Why could the Holmes brothers never interact like ordinary people? It was always so needlessly complicated dealing with their egos.

“An apt analogy when dealing with Sherlock,” came the smooth reply

“This isn’t a spat with him about working a case for you or pouting because there hasn’t been an interesting murder for him to solve.” John could feel his frustration growing at Mycroft’s stubbornness.

“The need for consequences wasn’t my decision, Doctor Watson. There were several key people in the government who were pushing for a full and public prosecution, undoubtedly because they had ties with Mr. Magnussen. Lady Smallwood and I brokered a deal that would avoid prosecution, but still provide a suitable outcome to those involved.” Mycroft paused to take another sip of his tea.

“A week before Christmas, I had been approached by MI6 and asked to pass a request on to Sherlock. They wanted him to undertake a mission for them in Eastern Europe, given his success while he was abroad after the fall. I did so, very reluctantly, giving the specifics of the mission. I also advised that he decline the offer. You know what happened next, John. After the shooting, it was a mad scramble to keep Sherlock from being jailed. It took several days of very intense meetings and calling in nearly every favor I was owed in order to broker the deal at all.”

“Why didn’t you want him to accept the mission?” Greg asked, obviously struggling to put the pieces together.

“There was almost no possibility of him surviving.” Mycroft replied baldly. John’s stomach clenched, the feeling of dread spreading in his stomach. He had known that there was something wrong on that runway; he had just convinced himself not to look too closely. Next to him, Greg collapsed in his chair, looking shell-shocked.

“So you agreed to a death sentence for your own brother.” Disgust laced through John’s every word. “Don’t give me the ‘other people had to be appeased’ line, Mycroft Holmes. You helped him plan his own fake suicide. You run the government, for all your protestations. You could have found another way besides sending your only brother on a mission that would kill him.”

“You think I should have just thrown him in jail, Doctor Watson? Incarcerated with criminals he helped put in jail? There isn’t a jail in the country that doesn’t have at least a dozen inmates that he put there.” John fell silent. He hadn’t considered that. Sherlock would have been dead within a week, no doubt killed in a riot. “Yes, I sent him on this mission. That doesn’t mean that I have accepted his death.”

John looked into the other man’s face, trying to see what he was planning. But he was no Holmes; he couldn’t read a man’s life in the wrinkles in his suit. “So you do have plans?” Mycroft nodded, but was apparently unwilling to go into details about them.

“So what now?”

“Anthea is investigating what happened today. Just as you arrived, the broadcast stopped of its own accord. The results of her investigation will dictate how I proceed.” Mycroft paused again, this time staring pointedly at John. “I have never intended to sacrifice my brother to the national interest, John. But I also can’t just do what I want. It’s complicated, but I assure you, I’m not sitting idly by.”

John nodded. “Will you tell him about this?”

“Not yet,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t have a direct line of communication with him, and he needs his focus on his mission, so he doesn’t make a mistake.” John just stared at his hands. There didn’t appear to be much more to say. A knock on the office door broke the uneasy silence.

“I appreciate your both coming here,” Mycroft said as Anthea opened the door. “I will keep you informed of developments.” John and Greg rose, obviously dismissed.

\------

On the pavement outside, John said goodbye to Greg and watched as he climbed back in his car to head back to the Yard. John had just turned to head towards the tube station when his mobile rang. The call wasn’t from a number that he recognized.

“Is this Doctor Watson?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“This is he.” 

“This is Doctor Wyatt. Mary has been taken to hospital. You should get here, as soon as possible.”

“Is it the baby?” he asked, the nerves intensifying into a ball in his stomach.

“Just hurry, John. You need to get here as soon as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really sorry about the cliffhanger. (But not sorry enough to have left it off….)
> 
> Greg is an Arsenal fan since that's Benedict's team (even though they just beat my Premier League team soundly).
> 
> Thanks for reading and your feedback! It's hard to believe this story is up to 15 chapters and just under 60,000 words! When I started writing, I had planned for all this to happen in chapter 7 or 8. Where did all these words come from?
> 
> Next update should be next weekend.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter has warning tags!**
> 
> Please check the updated tags carefully. That second big, bold warning? It applies to this chapter. Additional warnings apply to complications of pregnancy, angst and infant mortality. Please consider carefully before reading if these are triggers for you.
> 
> Also, I'm no expert on the NHS. I did some research, but I will beg your forgiveness in advance for anything I've gotten wrong. My experience with preeclampsia and it's dangers comes from a sister and sister-in-law who suffered from it while they were pregnant. I'm not a doctor, so while I've done research into the problem, please forgive any mistakes I've made.  
> 

**February 18**

John stood frozen on the pavement. All around him were the sounds of London daily life - cabbies honking, meaningless conversations and the general buzz of a thriving, busy city. It was all just background noise to John, however. Doctor Wyatt's words kept ringing in his ears. _You better hurry, John._ It took a full minute for John to shake off his paralysis and start to think again. What was he doing? Why was he standing stock still on the sidewalk?

As always, it took him several attempts to flag down a passing taxi, but soon enough he was finally moving through the crowded city streets, all the while trying to control the shaking in his limbs. He still didn't understand what was happening. Why had Mary been rushed to hospital? He stared at his mobile, hoping for another call, for more information on what had happened while he had been meeting with Mycroft and Greg. She had obviously made it to her doctor's appointment, but something must have gone wrong while she was there. What could it have been? He had asked how she was this morning before he had left for his shift at the clinic. She had assured him she was fine and that she would be fine without him at her appointment, since finding someone to cover for him during a shift was difficult at best. 

John was lost in his head during the whole trip to the hospital. He supposed it hadn't taken any longer than usual, but it felt like hours passed while he worried through the various possibilities. Eventually, the cab pulled up at the entrance to the hospital. Shoving some money at the cabbie (he wasn't even sure how much he handed over, only that it was apparently enough to cover the fare), John barreled out of the cab and slammed the door behind him. A couple of deep breaths steadied his nerves enough to start moving towards the large glass doors in front of him. The lobby inside was clean and bright, and completely at odds with the dark panic welling up inside him. There was an information desk directly ahead and for once there wasn't even a queue. He gave Mary's name and waited impatiently while the receptionist poked around in the computer. 

"She's in theatre right now," the woman finally answered after several tense minutes. "You want the waiting room for the maternity department; it’s up on the fourth floor. Take the lifts on the left-hand side over there," she directed, pointing towards a large number of elevator doors lining both sides of a hallway behind the information desk. John barely spared a breath to thank her before hurrying over to them, even more desperate to find someone who could tell him what was going on.

The ride up in the lift seemed to take forever. What could have happened that made them take her straight into the operating theatre? Was it a rush cesarean? Had her blood pressure spiked? As the lift continued its slow ascent, John's stomach sank. All the various complications kept running through his head. He might not be an obstetrician, but he knew just enough about what could go wrong during pregnancy to make him feel like a nervous wreck. The lift bell finally rang and as soon as the doors opened far enough, he hurried out, looking around at the bland corridor with doors in both directions. Fortunately, there was another information desk located just down the hall. Through the doorway behind it, John could see the waiting room the receptionist had directed him to. As he approached, the nurse at the desk looked up from the mountain of paperwork in front of her. 

"How may I help you?" she asked, in a kind but tired voice.

"My wife, Mary Watson, is in surgery. I was told to come up here. Can you tell me what's going on?" he demanded. He barely refrained from drumming his fingers on the counter in front of the desk as the woman looked up the information on the computer. Why was this taking so long? After several long minutes, she looked back at him.

"I will let Doctor Wyatt know you have arrived, Mr. Watson," she replied, reaching for the phone on the desk. He didn't bother to correct her form of address; knowing that he was also a doctor wouldn't make her more likely to talk to him. "He's in theatre with your wife right now, but he'll be out as soon as possible to tell you how she’s doing."

"Can’t you tell me anything?" he asked, not even trying to keep the anger and frustration from his voice. He wasn't surprised, however, when she just shook her head; hospital procedures would keep her from sharing anything substantial. Nurses not directly assigned to a patient invariably weren't allowed to disclose patient details; it minimized the potential for miscommunications and it helped maintain patients’ privacy. With a sigh, he turned to enter the waiting room.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?" she asked, the phone pressed to her ear, as he moved passed the desk. John just shook his head as he sank into one of the rigid plastic chairs that lined the walls of the waiting room. He ran his hands through his hair, wishing that he could do something to relieve the cloud of doom that was gathering over his head. This wasn't the plan; he had never seriously considered the possibility that Mary would become a high risk delivery. They had done everything they could to minimize the threats to her health.

The smell and sounds of the hospital weren’t comforting as he sat there in that uncomfortable chair; the mild sting of the disinfectant clung to the inside of his nose, making it impossible to forget just where he was. A couple of times, John looked down at his mobile as if he were expecting it to give him the information he needed. 

It seemed like it had been hours before John heard footsteps pause in the waiting room doorway. A quick glance at the clock showed that he had been there for only ten minutes. How was that possible? Surely it had been hours rather than minutes? Dragging his gaze from the linoleum floor, John's heart rose in his throat as he saw the figure of Doctor Wyatt hovering in the entryway. It was the look on the other man’s face that crystallized the panic running rampant in his insides. John knew that look; he’d worn it himself countless times. It’s an expression that every doctor has used at some point or other, the one they used when they had to be the bearers of bad news. It’s a look that means something bad has happened. Something horrible. Something irreversible. 

John stared at the doctor as he made his way across the room, unable to look away. His stomach felt like he’d swallowed a flock of hummingbirds. The only thing he was sure of at the moment was that he didn’t want to hear what Doctor Wyatt had to say. 

“John, I’m sorry,” he began, and John’s breath caught in his throat. “We did everything we could...”

“Just tell me what happened, please,” John interrupted, tension making his voice brittle. He didn’t want to hear the usual excuses that doctors gave family members when they didn’t want to share the details of what had gone wrong.

“Mary collapsed while she was at her appointment this afternoon. We rushed her here for surgery, but she never regained consciousness.” Doctor Wyatt paused, looking down at his own hands. “I’m sorry John.”

“What happened?” he asked again. “What went wrong?”

“Her blood pressure spiked while I was examining her. Apparently it was higher than she was telling anyone. I was also worried by her most recent bloodwork and had decided it was time to induce labour when she collapsed and started seizing.”

John just sat in shocked silence. How could she be gone? Why hadn't she told anyone she wasn't feeling well? Why hadn't he noticed? He was a doctor, why hadn't he picked up on it? He should have known, should have been paying closer attention to her. He should have been able to take care of her, push his feelings aside to do what he was trained to do. But he hadn't. He hadn’t even been there when she died. He hadn't protected her or his child. At that thought, the reminder that there had been two people in that surgery, John's head whipped upright to look at Doctor Wyatt again.

“What about the baby?” he demanded a little desperately. His stomach clenched as Doctor's Wyatt's face became somehow even more somber.

“We delivered her by cesarean, but she hasn't been very responsive. She's being taken to the NICU right now. She’s clinging to life right now, but to be honest, we don't think she's going to make it.”

John crumpled, his shoulders slumping and tears starting to stream down his face. This couldn't be happening; it wasn't right that Mary was dead and his baby clinging to life, all while he sat here, whole and healthy. He just sat there, crying silently, hoping against hope that the doctor would give him more information, something to cling onto, something to hope for. After a few minutes, he wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks and looked up at the Doctor again.

“Can I sit with her?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Doctor Wyatt answered immediately. "I'll walk you up there." He paused for a minute before continuing. “John, did you want to call someone? You probably shouldn’t be alone.”

John thought for a minute. He knew the doctor was right, but who could he call? Mary had no family, and there was no way he was calling Harry. Most of his friends weren't the sort you called for a hospital vigil; they were great for watching football and drinking a few pints, but they weren't close, not really. Finally, he thought of just the right person. With a sigh, he plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket and began dialing the number.

\----

Fifteen minutes later, John was sitting in another uncomfortable plastic chair, this time next to the incubator holding his daughter. She might not be as small as some of the other babies in the NICU, but she wasn't breathing on her own. John couldn't tear his eyes off her small, perfect face. Her hair was a peach-fuzz blonde, and she had Mary's nose. More tears ran down his face as he watched her, the sight of each labored breath making the ache in his chest grow. There were other parents and doctors in the ward, but John tuned out their soft talking. Whatever they were saying wasn't important. All that mattered right now was the tiny infant in front of him. Time slipped by as he stared at his little girl, willing her to keep breathing. 

A soft hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked away from the incubator for the first time since he had been allowed into the NICU. Mrs. Hudson stood slightly behind him, tears glistening in her sad eyes as she looked down at the pair of them. It took a few tries for John to speak. "Thank you for coming," he said, wincing a little at the formal words. 

"Oh my dear, I'm glad you called. You shouldn't be here alone." She leaned down and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. John breathed in the familiar aromas that clung to her; they eased the ache in his chest slightly; the smells of Baker Street a slight balm to his wounded soul. "Doctor Wyatt filled me in," she admitted quietly as she sank down into the chair next to him, her hand sliding around one of his in a surprisingly firm grip. "I'm so sorry about Mary, John." 

"It's my fault, Mrs. Hudson. I should have seen it coming; should have paid more attention to them both. I got caught up in everything that happened and I failed them."

"No, John," she said quietly but emphatically. "None of this is your fault. I know things weren't good between you, but that doesn't make it your fault. It's a tragedy," she said, her voice catching a bit, "a real tragedy. But it's no one's fault." They sat there in silence for a bit, clinging to each other's hand. John felt like her hand was the only thing keeping him anchored in the real world. 

A quiet cough sometime later made them both look around. Doctor Wyatt and another doctor stood nearby, watching the pair of them; John was sure the other doctor had introduced himself earlier, but it hadn't registered.

"I'm sorry, John," Doctor Wyatt began, and John saw that terrible sadness in his eyes again. He tried to brace himself for what he suspected the doctor was going to say. "We've run the tests three times, and it's not good. It looks like her organs are starting to fail." Beside him, he heard Mrs. Hudson give a quiet cry as John gripped her hand even harder. Even suspecting what the news was, he hadn’t been prepared. He didn’t think anyone could ever have been truly prepared for that type of news.

"How long?" he asked in a croaky voice; the sadness and guilt inside him was making it hard to speak. "How long does she have?"

"Not long, I'm afraid," the other doctor answered. "At most, a couple of hours." John gasped, hanging his head and struggling to keep from losing it entirely. The doctors gave them a few minutes before continuing. "We're going to move you to a room, give you some privacy. Do you want to call a minister?" John just shook his head. 

"Can I hold her? Please?" he asked.

"Yes," Doctor Wyatt answered immediately. "As soon as we've got you settled in the room." the next few minutes were a bit of a blur, as the nurses moved them into a small room at the side of the ward. They unhooked most of the tubes before carefully lifting the baby and handing her over to John's shaking hands. He cradled the small, pink-wrapped bundle up against his chest, his tears running down his face unchecked as he felt her warmth against him for the first time. Mrs. Hudson stood behind him, her arm a comforting anchor across his shoulders. Her head came to rest against his own, her tears occasionally dripping into his hair. But he didn't care. John’s world narrowed down to their small huddle; the only thing that mattered in the world right now was the three of them. He wasn't sure how long he sat in that rocking chair, rocking slightly as he talked to the small bundle in his arms. He told her how much her parents loved her and described the future that they should have had together. 

After a while, he noticed that her breathing had slowed down significantly. He stared down into her pale face, crying heavily and kissing those small, perfect cheeks as she took her last, laboured breaths. It felt like his heart cracked as he felt her go still in his hands. The sobs broke loose then as he leaned over her tiny body, forehead pressed to hers and just rocked back and forth. He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, cradling his daughter’s body in his arms. Eventually, the tears slowed a bit and he became aware of the other people in the room; he looked up, taking an interest in his surroundings for the first time in what felt like hours. Doctor Wyatt stood next to the door, a single tear on his cheek as he watched them while a nurse stood at the side of the room, completing the chart. She cleared her throat before turning to John.

"Did you want to name her, Doctor Watson?" 

John nodded; one of the few things he and Mary had managed to agree upon was a name. "Her name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Marie Watson." John stared down at his daughter, still held tightly in his arms. Saying her name aloud had felt like a benediction, the blessing that signaled the end of her short life.

\----

Several hours later, John sat slouched in yet another waiting room. It was all over now. Elizabeth and Mary were on their way to the morgue. He had finally seen Mary's body. For the first time in months, he had forced himself to look at her face. He was still numb. He had stared at her lifeless body, trying to find a way to understand what had gone wrong. But there was no magical answer. He just couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that they were both dead. He had expected to be home tonight, trying to find a way to work through his anger; instead, all that anger was now turned on himself. He had wasted months on pointless turmoil. What had all those months of anguish gotten him other than a heart full of regrets and self-loathing? He had wasted so much time.

A noise in the doorway dragged John out of his bitter musing. A glance at the clock on the wall showed it was well after midnight. He wasn't even sure how long he had been in the hospital at this point. It felt like several lifetimes ago when he had been sitting in that office with Mycroft and Greg. Nothing that had happened since he walked out the Diogenes Club door felt real. Looking at the waiting room door, he tried to smile at the sight of Mrs. Hudson standing there, but he just couldn't manage it. 

"Is there anything I can do, John?" she asked tentatively as she walked over and placed a hand on his arm. He just shook his head.

"It's all taken care of for now. I'll need to make more arrangements, but it has to wait until the funeral director is awake," he replied, trying not to think of the decisions to come. “I should let people what happened, I guess” he muttered to himself, still staring down at his hands.

“I hope it’s ok,” Mrs. Hudson admitted hesitantly, “but I called Mycroft and Detective Inspector Lestrade on my way over earlier. I told them not to come unless you called them, but I felt like they should know.” Relief spun through John, making him feel lightheaded. He should tell Harry, but that could wait until morning when she was more likely to be sober. 

“You’re an angel, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Do you need to do anything else here, dear?”

“Doctor Wyatt said to go home, but... “ John tailed off, leaving the rest of that sentence hanging. The truth was that he didn’t want to go back to that empty house, with the nursery all painted and ready for a baby who would never use it. It was more than he could deal with now. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat delicately.

“Why don’t you come home with me? You can stay in my spare room or up in 221B, whichever you prefer. But I think I would feel better if you weren’t alone tonight.” He looked up at her, immensely grateful for being his rock through this whole ordeal. He didn’t think he could have faced it alone. His body creaked as he stood up, joints protesting the hours spent in one uncomfortable chair after another. He felt beaten down, more heartbroken and exhausted than he had ever been before. 

John grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s arm as they walked out the door. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he was keeping her steady or if she was holding him upright. As they walked out the hospital doors, he wasn’t terribly surprised to see a sleek black car sitting at the kerb. As they walked closer, the driver opened the door for them; luckily, the back of the car was empty. As much as he appreciated Mycroft’s assistance in getting him away from here, he was relieved that he didn’t need to interact with anyone else. He told the driver to take them to Baker Street and settled back against the seat, his eyes closing as he tried to keep the memories at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit - I'm nervous about this chapter. I've never written anything quite like this before, and I hope it works. I'd love to hear your feedback on this chapter. As always, thanks for continuing to read! I can't believe I'm up to almost 1000 hits! 
> 
> The next update should happen next weekend.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter has warnings.**
> 
>  
> 
> Nothing as heavy as the last one, but there is still a considerable amount of angst, as well as references to suicidal tendencies. Please read carefully if this is a trigger for you.

_There is no grief like the grief that does not speak. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

**February 19**

Shattered.

That was the one word that kept repeating inside John’s mind. He was absolutely shattered. It felt like he was breaking into so many pieces that there was no hope of ever making him whole again. He felt like a teacup that had been dropped multiple times; each time the cup fell, the number of pieces multiplied and the edges became more jagged. The cracks had been created when that bullet had pierced his shoulder in the deserts of Afghanistan. Sherlock had patched him back together during their chases through London, before exploding them again when he had stepped off that rooftop. Meeting Mary at the clinic had restarted the healing process two years ago, but it had taken Sherlock’s return from the dead to truly make him feel whole again. And now, there were no large pieces left; the remnants of John Watson were scattered amongst the dust covering the floor of Baker Street.

This was all a cruel piece of déjà vu; he was exactly where he had been almost four years ago. He was once again sitting in his old arm chair, staring brokenly at the empty chair across from him while he waited for a miracle. Not that he could see much beyond that chair. The room around him was almost completely shrouded in darkness; he hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights when he had stumbled up here a few hours ago. Mrs. Hudson had asked him to join her for a cup of tea once the black car had dropped them off in front of that familiar door. It hadn’t sounded all that appealing, but after everything she had done for him at the hospital, spending half an hour more with her seemed like a small enough sacrifice. But as he had sat in her kitchen, a warm mug of tea cradled between his cold, numb hands, John had grown more and more uncomfortable. The need to be alone had grown like a rash under his skin. He had only last fifteen minutes before he had mumbled some excuse and practically bolted for the stairs. He hadn’t seen the tears start to run yet again down her careworn face as she watched him flee, nor had he noticed the worried look that had crossed her face and sent her scurrying for her mobile phone.

He hadn’t moved since he had fallen into the chair hours ago; the soft cushions had embraced his weary body as he stared endlessly at nothing. But even the comfort of his favorite chair couldn't do anything to ease the pain that had exploded in his chest and head. How could they all be gone? The three most important people in his life since he had left the army were all gone. The baby he had already loved and the woman he had made his wife were both dead, while the best man he had ever known was thousands of miles away on a mission that would kill him. That it was John’s inaction that had forced Sherlock onto that mission was the metaphorical dagger at the heart of it all. He had done what John had been unable to do, find a way to protect himself and his wife from the threat of a scheming blackmailer. Once again, in the face of a life-or-death decision, John Watson had frozen and waited for someone else to do something.

It was all so familiar. Four years ago, he had stood still and watched while Sherlock stepped off the roof, powerless to stop his best friend from plunging to his death. Watching Sherlock take that step had nearly destroyed him. He barely remembered the months afterwards, months where it had been all he could do just to drag himself out of bed and make himself eat. The only solace he had been able to find had been in the bottom of the scotch bottle. Despite his sister's struggles with drink, he had buried his pain beneath its comforting oblivion. It had taken him almost a full year to realize just how far he had sunk and to start pulling himself out.

It was so tempting to go back to the booze, to drink himself to death this time, not just oblivion. The emptiness inside him felt so much bigger and the siren call of the bottle that much stronger. The months of anger and agonizing over Mary’s secrets and lies had worn him down in the months before Christmas; the weeks of emotional turmoil since then had made him even more confused. Sitting here now, months later, he wondered if all that struggling had been pointless. He had wasted months wrestling with emotions that had threatened to bury him and for what? He didn't have any more answers and now there were no more chances to make right again. As a direct result of his emotional shortcomings, he hadn’t been there when Mary or Elizabeth had needed him. Pain ricocheted through him at the thought of his daughter’s name. A name that should have brought nothing but joy now brought only soul-crushing pain. Each time he closed his eyes, the only thing he could see was the image of his daughter wrapped in that tiny pink blanket as she had struggled through her last breaths. He was exhausted, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep. The only thing he could do was sit here and stare into nothingness. 

The stark reality was that there was simply nothing he could do to ease any of his pain or regret. There was no way to protect his best friend from his wife's lies, or to protect Mary from the betrayal of her own body. He had been absolutely powerless to keep his innocent, beautiful baby girl alive. All of his medical experience and training had been absolutely useless when he had needed it the most. His failure to do right by any of the people who had been most important to him was a burden he didn't know if he could bear. It wasn't the same type of pain as he had felt four years ago. The pain of watching Sherlock fall had been a singular yet massive entity eating away at him. He had failed his best friend, leaving him to be victimized by a madman.

This time, the pain had so many different layers, all of them intertwined into a massive web of agony that filled him from head to toe. There was the pain of Mary's betrayal and lies, which mixed with the anger that still burnt every time he recalled their confrontation in this very room. The next layer was the anguish of watching Sherlock trade his own life for John's future as they had stood on that freezing patio. A thread of the helplessness and shame twined through all that, a remnant of that meeting where Mycroft where had detailed the terms of Sherlock's exile. Then there was the guilt, woven in intricate silver threads throughout everything else. There was so much guilt eating away at him; what had happened in Appledore, his inability to deal with the emotions that had kept him from Mary's side and the fact that he hadn't been able to see the danger Mary and Elizabeth had been in were threads that threatened to strangle him.

Hours passed unmarked as John sat in his chair, wrestling with his demons. The only sign of the passing of the time was that the sliver of sky visible through a chink in the curtain had started to lighten from murky black. It wasn't important, anyway. The passage of time meant nothing to him now; it just hammered home the reality that it hadn't been a dream or joke. Mary and Elizabeth were both dead. He was alone in his old flat, staring at the floor and waiting either for the pain to lessen enough to allow him a little sleep or the weight of it all to pull him under. Anything that happened outside this room didn't matter in the slightest. The world could go on without him, as far as he was concerned. John Watson had been shattered.

\----

Greg pulled his car up to the kerb outside Baker Street and sighed as he looked at the achingly familiar black front door. What a night. Once Mrs. Hudson had told him the situation, he had been tempted to ignore what she had said about waiting for John to call and just show up anyway. But he hadn’t been sure that his presence would have been a comfort to John. So he had stayed home like she suggested, but he hadn’t even tried to sleep. Instead, he had spent the whole night pacing while he waited for the phone to ring again. 

It has been almost three o’clock before Mrs. Hudson had called again. She had simply said that both Mary and the baby had died and that she had taken John back at Baker Street for the time being. Greg hadn’t been able to say anything as the shock hit him, but Mrs. Hudson had simply asked if he could stop by first thing in the morning. Once Greg had agreed, desperate to help in any little way he could, she had ended the call. So here he was, just as the city was beginning to wake up, hoping that she had something he could do to help John. 

Poor John. Just how much could one man be expected to take before he cracked? Greg remembered how hard it had been to watch him struggle to find a way to live after Sherlock's suicide. He had thought then that he was seeing a man at his absolute lowest. He had been worried that one day he would get a call telling him that John had ended it all. But this was so much worse than what had happened four years ago. How did you comfort a friend who had lost his wife, child and, for all intents and purposes, his best friend, all within six weeks?

Thank goodness for Martha Hudson, he thought as he got out of the car. He was so grateful that the dear woman had bullied John into staying here for the time being. Greg might not be sure the best way to help John right now, but he was pretty sure that being left alone in the house that he had shared with Mary wouldn’t help in the slightest. He sighed as he closed the car door behind him and headed towards the back door; he didn't want to risk disturbing John by ringing the bell. There didn't appear to be any signs of life from anywhere in the building; all the windows on the street were dark. Greg knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, hoping she wasn't asleep; maybe he should have called to let her know he was coming. 

Fortunately, the door opened after only a few seconds; she had obviously been waiting for him. "Detective Inspector," she said as she pulled open the door. Her voice was hoarse and her eyes were rimmed with red; Greg was sure she had spent most of the night crying. "Thanks for coming."

"Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked as she let him into the kitchen. "Anything at all that I can do to I help?"

"I don't know, dear." She paused, wiping the corner of her eye with a tissue. "I know life's not fair - but it's just been so much bad news for poor John. He thought he lost everything four years ago, and yet somehow he's lost even more now." She paused again, obviously fighting back tears. It took her a minute to continue. "I'm so worried about him. He looked so lost last night; it broke my heart to see him holding his little girl, sobbing as he waited for...." she trailed off, burying her face in a tissue. Greg sat there, staring at the floor. He hated the helplessness welling inside him; as a copper, it was rare to feel this powerless. There was almost always something he could do to change a situation. But this time there wasn't, and it ate away at him.

“How long do you think he'll stay here?" he asked after a few minutes' silence, trying to keep it together himself

"I don't know. I haven't heard a sound from upstairs since he went up there. I tried offering my spare room, in case he didn't want to fight all the other memories tonight, but he just said he preferred to be up there." She sighed again, wiping at her cheeks with the tissue. 

"I'm glad you're looking out for him, Mrs. Hudson," he admitted quietly. "I hate to think what could happen if he was alone right now." He paused, wondering how much more he should say.

"I know, dear," came the soft reply. "I would have argued something fierce had he decided to go home last night."

Greg just nodded, staring at the mug of tea in his hands. 

"Do you have a key to his other flat?" He asked finally, having finally come up with something he could do. "I'm sure he doesn't have much stuff with him here. I could go pack him a suitcase, so he doesn't have to go back there until he's more ready to face it." 

“Well," she replied, pausing delicately, "they've never given me one, but the doctor last night did give me Mary's personal items before we left. I figured I would just hold onto everything for a few days." She went out to the hallway and returned with a plastic shopping bag. He watched as she sorted through it for a minute before pulling out a small key ring. "Do you have the address?"

"Yeah, I was there a time or two, mostly before the wedding." Greg drained the rest of his tea and thanked Mrs. Hudson for her help. He didn't want to look in on John; best to leave the poor man alone for a few days. 

Ads he drove across London, Greg admitted that he had a secondary motive for going to John and Mary’s flat. He was pretty sure that John didn’t have his illegal handgun anymore; if Sherlock had indeed used it to kill the media magnate, Mycroft would have had no choice but to confiscate it. But he was going to search anyway; it was the least he could do to make sure John Watson was still living should they ever manage to get Sherlock back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and leaving your comments. I really appreciate everyone sticking with this story. I hope this chapter helps with some of the feedback from last chapter where people felt Sherlock was missing from John's thoughts.
> 
> The next chapter should be up next weekend. 
> 
> I do have tumblrs, in case anyone wants to follow them. The one specific for my writing is here: http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/. I have a general one as well, mostly for geek stuff, my fan art and photography; http://amylaura76.tumblr.com/


	18. Chapter 18

**February 19**

The whine of the brittle winter wind mixing with the crashing of the waves on the beach created a lonely, disconsolate symphony that whipped through the darkened streets in the small seaside hamlet of Ilyich. Listening to it as he scanned the sleepy houses and streets around him, Sherlock could almost convince himself that he could hear the echoes of sea shanties sung by long dead pirates and fishermen. He shook his head as he tried to focus his attention; such flights of fancy used to be so far beneath his notice. It was almost laughable now how often he found himself veering from the logic and science that used to dictate his life. It wasn’t like all this attention to sentiment could change what was coming at the end of this mission. All it could do was allow it to arrive even faster. Remembering the whimsical fantasies of a young boy who wanted to sail the high seas as part of a crew of brigands was nothing less than a serious threat to his concentration.

A shake of his head helped clear away the echoes of his childhood dreams. Sherlock was stationed in an alley between houses on the western edge of the small fishing town, waiting for the first light of dawn and hopefully the sight of a fishing boat coming from the other side of the Strait. The town around him was eerily still; there were no signs of life coming from any of the houses. Sherlock supposed he should be grateful for the wind that bit through his heavy parka; in a more hospitable time of the year, the streets around him would be busy as the fishing community headed out to ply their trade. This might be the first time since he left London that Sherlock was grateful not to be wearing his Belstaff; stylish and visually impressive though it always was, the dark wool wouldn't have been a match the wind whipping off the Black Sea. 

A glance to the east showed that the sky, which had been a murky bluish-black when he had arrived, had now lightened slightly just along the horizon. It wouldn't be long now before the sun was visible over the white-capped waves. Directly in front of him, the light was just starting to strike the cliffs on the Ukrainian side of the straight; the rock face is no longer just a black monolith against the dark sky. As he shivered and tried to warm his cold fingers, Sherlock’s anxiety grew steadily. Where was Maks’ fisherman friend, Boris or whatever his name was? Maks had said that he would arrange for the other man to be here at dawn today to take him to Sevastopol. Of course, he thought wryly, the problem with arranging to meet someone at dawn was that it left too much open to interpretation. It wasn’t an exact time. As he stood there waiting, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from wishing he had some cigarettes to help ease the tension in his mind. John’s disapproving eyes flashed in front of his face and Sherlock just chuckled darkly while resolving to buy some the first chance he found. After all, it wasn’t like he had to worry about their long-term effects.

Sherlock frustration was reaching danger levels, not just because he was stuck here, freezing and waiting for Boris to show up, but also because the last few days has been a complete waste of time. He had originally planned to spend the two days after Maks left carrying out more surveillance in Krasnodar. Unfortunately, the days of the week hadn’t registered while he had been planning; Maks had left on a Saturday morning. The Russian Military worked on the typical government work schedule, which when combined with the ongoing Olympic hysteria, meant that the government complex had been practically deserted for the whole weekend. The few unfortunate souls stuck working while everyone else was off had all been headed towards other buildings in the complex, to his great frustration. Sherlock had considered breaking into the military building again, but in the end he had decided it was too risky. He would have been faced with the full security measures, which would have made it hard for his presence to go undetected; if he had managed to disarm the system somehow, there was always the probability that it would trigger a secondary alarm.

Once he had ruled out a break-in, Sherlock’s alternative plan had been to find General Yerzov and begin tailing him to see he what he could learn. Unfortunately, the logistics of that plan had been equally as daunting; the information from Maks’ contacts hadn’t included an address and he was sure that searching for a military officer’s address online wouldn’t go unnoticed by the Russian internet monitors. Even if he had managed to find the man’s house, there was bound to be some sort of security presence there as well. Getting arrested for loitering or some other petty crime near a General’s home would not only expedite his own death but also put everyone else involved in the investigation at risk.

As a result, Sherlock had been ended up spending most of the weekend stuck in that tiny, dingy flat. While he had been grateful for the opportunity to organize all the new information inside his Mind Palace, it hadn’t been enough to occupy him for the whole weekend. The lure of the other areas of his Mind Palace had been too strong; he hadn't been able to stop himself from spending hours in the 221B sitting room, basking in the warm fire and the fond recollections of his life in London. The aromas of the flat, Mrs. Hudson's cooking and the faint echo of John's aftershave wafted around him as he sat in his chair. He knew lingering here was a dangerous distraction and a waste of time, but he hadn't been able to help himself.

Only in the confines of his mind would he admit that he missed home much more than he had ever counted on. He missed everything about London: the feel of the pavement beneath his feet as he chased criminals, the comforting presence of John watching his back, and the look on Lestrade’s face as he solved crimes the other man had been stuck on for days, just to name a few things. But most of all, he missed his flat and everything it represented. The smells and feel of the building had grounded him in ways that nothing else had ever done. Even the fact that his actions had saved John Watson didn’t ease the ache in his chest for the home he had sacrificed.

The sound of an approaching boat engine broke the stillness of the early morning and turned Sherlock’s attention outwards once more. Looking around, it only took seconds to pick up the sight of the small fishing boat in the open water off to the west. He shrank further back into the shadows of the alleyway, keeping an eye out for sudden movements in the town around him, as he watched the boat make its slow, steady progress towards him. Fortunately, everything remained quiet and calm for the few torturous minutes it took for the boat to pull up to the pier on his left. Sherlock took a deep breath and headed out of the alleyway towards the waiting boat. As he drew near, the captain of the boat leapt nimbly up onto wooden pier and moved a few steps towards Sherlock.

“Morning,” Sherlock greeted him once they were a few steps apart; Maks hadn’t given him a code phrase or any other way of verifying each other’s identities. It was a startling oversight now that Sherlock thought about it.

“Good morning,” came the deep, gravelly reply. But as Sherlock debated the best way to make sure he was talking to the right person, the other man continued. "Maks said to ask you about the fishing in Belarus." A bark of laughter escaped Sherlock's lips before he could contain it. This was definitely the right man. During his mission four years ago, he had first made contact with Maks at a market where there had been a particularly memorable fish monger. The man had been adamant in attempting to pass off the rather common carp in his cart as a much more exotic fish. 

"The freshly-caught dogfish* was spectacular," he replied, naming the variety of fish the man had been insistent he was selling. The other man gave a brief chuckle before holding out a weathered hand in greeting.

"Boris Slakov," the other man introduced himself. "We better get moving, Mr. Holmes."

"Any new developments I should know about?" Sherlock asked, once Boris had shoved off.

"Nothing concrete, but the tensions are definitely rising," Boris replied as he steered the boat back towards the other end of the Strait. "The number of Russian agents has also increased. When I met Maks here a week ago, there were a handful of people I'd swear were operatives. Now, that number is easily several dozen. The highest concentration of them is on the eastern side of the peninsula, but they are more noticeable in Sevastopol as well."

"It'll be easier for them to blend in on the other side, with fewer people wary of their presence," Sherlock replied, mostly thinking out loud.

"I'm not going to drop you directly in Sevastopol," Boris remarked once the boat had passed through the shipping channel. The Black Sea opened up before them, desolate and inhospitable in the cold dawn light. The wind was definitely stronger on this side too and Sherlock was glad he and Boris were protected inside the small cabin on his boat. Boris kept the craft fairly close to the northern shore of sea and Sherlock stared at the beaches and cliffs as they passed by. Here and there were hotels and other summer destinations; he supposed this would all be quite pretty in more hospitable weather.

"The security presence in the city is too high," Sherlock pulled his gaze back towards the man at his side when he started speaking again. "I’m a familiar face; everyone knows me and my business," he admitted, "so it would be dangerous for both of us if I was to be seen dropping you off. Too many people would be looking at you." Sherlock grunted in response.

"So where are you depositing me?" he asked, mind racing with possibilities.

"My sister lives near Yalta, right on the sea," Boris said, pulling a map out of the console. He pointed to a small town that was on the other side of the horn from Sevastopol. "It's a small town and I stop there fairly frequently. I also happen to have a small car parked in her shed; it's nothing special, but it should get you around." Boris passed over a key, along with a small file of papers that had been hidden under the maps. Sherlock glanced through them; they were from Maks. The packet contained new identity papers as well as directions to both the safe house in Sevastopol and the mechanics shop where he would be able to find Alexey Tupolov.

"How often are you in the city?" Sherlock asked as he pocketed the information. "How do I get in touch with you when I need to pass anything along to Maks?"

"I'm there practically every morning," came the dry reply. "I'm based there. Finding me won't be a problem; I'm always down at the main docks around dawn. If I have information for you, I'll pass it along to Alexey. He's my mechanic, so it won't be suspicious."

"If possible, I'll leave anything that needs passed on with him, then," Sherlock replied. "I can always fake problems with the car, say I was tricked and bought a clunker, if anyone asks."

"It won't be that much of a lie," Boris replied with a chuckle. "It's not exactly new; it runs, but that’s about it."

\----

It was mid-afternoon by the time that Sherlock pulled the ancient beige car up in front of the small safe house on the southeast side of Sevastopol. It had taken him far longer than he would have liked to get here; Boris’s sister had been overly friendly, insisting he stay for a meal and a long conversation before he was able to escape. Sherlock felt like he was going soft; he used to be much more efficient when it came to extracting himself from all unnecessary personal entanglements. With a sigh, he grabbed his duffle bag from the back seat and headed into the dull grey-coloured house in front of him.

It was much the same as every other house he had spent time in on this mission. After a quick look around its sparse rooms, Sherlock threw his bag on the bed in the main bedroom before heading back to the kitchen; there weren't any envelopes or letters waiting for him this time. He frowned, trying to figure out the best use of his time. Maks wasn't due to arrive in Odessa before this evening at the earliest, so there was little chance of any communication from him. Still, it made sense to get a lay of the city; he needed to make contact with Alexey as well. It wouldn’t be good to have to guess the man’s identity during an emergency.

It took about twenty minutes for him to find the mechanic’s shop near the harbor. It was a typical mechanic's shop, with a few old cars parked on the side and piles of tires in almost every available spot. Sherlock sat in the car for a moment after he finished parking the car on the street outside. There had been a lot of people around the city streets this afternoon as he had driven here, more than he would have expected to see on a Tuesday afternoon in the wintertime anyway. The numerous possibilities ran through his mind as he got out of the car and headed towards the main door of the shop.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, however, Sherlock had his answer. There was a small television set up in the corner, and a few people were gathered around, apparently watching a news bulletin. He edged closer and stopped as he realized they were watching coverage of riots that were apparently happening in Kiev. Was this footage live or from another day?

"Can I help you?" a man asked from the counter, giving Sherlock a puzzled look. Of course, he thought, berating himself. Why would a stranger enter a shop and then stop and stare at the television? If he were a local, it would be one thing, but obviously no one knew him around here. He headed over to the counter, relieved to see the name Alexey embroidered on the man’s shirt.

"My car’s picked up a rattle," he said, waving out the window towards where it sat on the street. "I was told this was a good place to get it looked at." He watched as Alexey stared at it for a minute; did he recognize it? Sherlock frowned, casting a sideways glance at the car. It seemed unremarkable to him, one beige four-door car in a sea of very similar cars.

"Sure, I'll take a look," the other man said eventually, coming from behind the counter and walking with Sherlock back out of the shop. It took a minute for Sherlock to find the unfamiliar bonnet release; he stifled a sigh of relief once he managed to get the bonnet up and then moved to join the other man at the front of the car.

“I got a call from Maks a couple of days ago, saying to expect you. I admit that I wasn’t expecting you to show up with Boris’ car, however,” Alexey said quietly as he started fiddling with a few of the wires. Sherlock noticed he was careful to hide his mouth “How’s Maks doing?” Sherlock leaned down, pretending to focus on what the other man was doing.

“He was fine when I last saw him three days ago. He should be arriving in Odessa tonight.” The other man simply nodded in response. “Those riots on the television,” Sherlock asked with a gesture back towards the lobby, “do you know if they are from today?”

“Apparently from today, based on what the newsreaders are saying.” Alexey took a quick look over his shoulder before continuing. “Yesterday, there were riots in Kiev; there were definitely rioters killed by the police, but no one knows exactly how many.”

"Know what caused the violence?"

"The police tried to bully the protesters,” Alexey summarized quickly. “The protesters wouldn’t give, though.” 

"How are things here?"

"Very tense,” Alexey admitted. “The ethnic Russians are a small, but extremely vocal minority. They support President Yanukovych and some want to secede from Ukraine and rejoin the motherland." Sherlock watched him fidget for a few minutes, nodding as he pointed at this plug or that wire.

"Have you noticed more Russians around than usual?"

"Some. My cousin on the other side of Crimea said he's seeing more people he would swear are native Russians. More strange faces around his little village, that kind of thing." Sherlock murmured in agreement. It all fit in with the intelligence they had found in Temryuk and Krasnodar.

"Right," Alexey said loudly as he straightened up. "I think your car should be fine. If not, come back and see me." Sherlock nodded and shook his hand. At least he had made contact with Maks' friend. It was time to get the feeling of the city and its population.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The dogfish is common to the North Atlantic, so it wouldn’t commonly be available in Belarus. One of my favorite British shows (‘Allo, ‘Allo) has a rather ridiculous plot involving a freshly-caught dogfish, so that’s why I used that variety.
> 
> \---
> 
> Sorry about the delay! I'm going to blame having to shovel my driveway three times between Saturday and Sunday, plus the record cold temperatures we've been having for draining my motivation. At some point, winter has to end, right? 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting. The various plots are all starting to pick up, I promise. 
> 
> One question - I've noticed that AO3 has been tagging the notes from my first chapter to the end of chapters I've been publishing recently. Anyone have any ideas on how to get it to stop doing that? It's a bit annoying.


	19. Chapter 19

**February 22**

Two stories below Sherlock’s perch, the streets of Sevastopol teemed with people carrying banners and chanting for the third day in a row. Since he had arrived in Sevastopol, there had been daily protests that tied into the nation’s ongoing political drama. Without a doubt, today's crowds were the largest he had seen so far. Since the violence had escalated in Kiev on Tuesday, the protests and counter-protests that had been happening for months had increased exponentially. It was fairly safe to say that Ukraine had descended into chaos. Sherlock wasn’t generally prone to hyperbole (outside of describing his level of boredom at any given moment, of course), but it was the most accurate description he could find for what was going on around him.

From his post on the roof of a downtown office building, Sherlock scanned the crowd below, watching and categorizing the various participants. Alexey had suggested this rooftop as a good vantage point for him to observe what was happening on the streets. The office building was centrally located, which gave Sherlock the ability to see the main areas where the protesters tended to gather each day. Even better, while he had clear sightlines to most of the major gathering points, the design of the roofline meant that he wasn't easily visible to anyone who might be looking, either on the street or from another building. Given what he had learned in Krasnodar, it would be incredibly naive to believe that there weren’t Russian intelligence agents scattered throughout the crowd watching for anyone acting suspiciously.

While protests were happening all over the country, it was safe to say that the scenes unfolding in the streets of Sevastopol were different than the vast majority of gatherings. Everywhere else in Ukraine, the crowds were almost uniformly Pro-Western, the participants expressing their displeasure with President Yanukovych’s moves to align the country with the Kremlin. The protests on the Crimean peninsula, particularly the group here in Sevastopol and the smaller gatherings that were happening on the eastern coast, were demonstrating the citizens' desires to be part of Russia instead of Ukraine. Instead of the blue and yellow flags that flew over the protesters elsewhere in the country, the crowds here marched under red, blue and white banners. The chants from the crowd called for the region to revert to Putin's control as well. It was all rather concerning, given the volatility of the situation and the depth of conflict between the two ethnic populations.

Sherlock's anxiety grew the longer he observed the people below him. Today’s crowds were not only larger than previous gatherings, but they were also far more intense. For the first time, there was a palpable energy generated by the assembled protesters; while the crowds had been passionate before, they hadn’t been nearly this frenetic. Sherlock's frown deepened as he debated what could have changed elsewhere in the last few hours that would have amplified the political and social unrest this far south. The most likely cause, as far as Sherlock could tell, was the compromise deal that President Yanukovych had signed the night before. Designed to appease his opponents and ease the violence that had plagued Kiev for the last few days, the immediate reaction from most of the country had been fairly positive. The people in Crimea had been deeply disappointed, somewhat naturally given their more Pro-Russian leanings. That disenchantment and frustration could easily explain why today’s crowds were larger and more agitated than previous days.

The mood and appearance of the crowds weren’t the only changes, however. Over the last twenty-four hours, there had been a noticeable increase in the number of armed patrols making their way through the city. While a few wore the standard Ukrainian police uniforms, they appeared to be only a fraction of the overall security presence on the streets. A large number of the armed guards stationed throughout the city were dressed in plain uniforms with no visible insignia. They also had been traveling in better quality armoured vehicles and carried more substantial weaponry than the normally-uniformed police officers. Most alarmingly, Sherlock had noticed that that they always seemed to be tracking the Pro-Western crowds rather than the larger crowds that cheered for Putin.

As he watched the crowds of protesters stream through the streets below him, Sherlock spotted a convoy of those unmarked armoured trucks driving along a side street, which would more than likely result in them passing within a block of this building. As he watched them slowly make their way towards him, Sherlock started to debate his options. He really needed to see if he could get more information about where these trucks had come from, not to mention whose forces were manning them. He couldn’t do that from up here, unfortunately; he wouldn’t be close enough up here to do more than identify the colour of the vehicles as they passed. That pretty much decided the matter as far as Sherlock was concerned. Seconds later, he was hurrying down the nearest staircase. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell, which made Sherlock wince slightly. It might be a Saturday, but that didn’t mean the building was empty. He couldn’t afford to be taken into custody for breaking into offices.

Just over a minute later, Sherlock popped his head out of the side door of the office block. Fortunately, he seemed to have made it outside the building without drawing too much attention to himself. After a quick glance up and down the empty side street, Sherlock shifted along the foundation of the building in the direction of the main street. The noise of the nearby protesters echoed against the concrete buildings and drowned out almost every other noise. The clamor grew even louder as he approached the mouth of the street.

He was able to slide through the people heading towards the protest fairly easily since this street wasn't as crowded as the one on the other side of the building. He stopped on the next street, hiding in a gap between buildings. The convoy was still over a block away, moving slowly. There weren’t many people on this particular street, which was both a blessing and a curse. Too many people would have made it difficult to see the details in the convoy, but a few more people in the street would have made it easier to observe without being noticed. There wasn’t time to see if he could get into any of the buildings on the street. He didn’t want to stay in this particular gap; it was too visible to everyone in the convoy.

Sherlock almost growled with frustration as he surveyed his immediate surroundings. He supposed that it wouldn’t be a catastrophe if he didn’t get a look at this particular convoy. There would no doubt be more opportunities to observe these groups of unmarked trucks. Just as he was beginning to pass on the idea, however, Sherlock spotted an alcove a little ways further down the street. A combination of two oddly placed pillars and an overflowing rubbish skip had created an alcove that would be almost invisible to anyone not looking closely.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips a minute later as he slid into the small gap. He had been right: he could see pretty clearly between the pillars, but it would be extremely difficult for others to see him. The smells of rotten garbage coming from the rubbish skip were pretty overpowering, but that was the only problem with this hiding spot. He could stand the stench if it meant getting the answers he needed. It took about five minutes for the convoy to reach his new position; they apparently weren’t doing anything to herd or influence the people in the street, just moving slowly along with the rest of the protesters.

As discretely as possible, Sherlock began snapping pictures of the various trucks and soldiers with his mobile. None of the men in the convoy were particularly notable; they could easily have been locals rather than foreign agents. Sherlock continued scanning the trucks, hoping to find any kind of markings that would tell Sherlock where they came from. There were no obvious insignias or logos, but that didn’t mean the trucks were completely blank. In the back of one truck, Sherlock saw a crate that almost certainly had Russian writing on it; he couldn’t see the whole label, but the word ‘explosive’ was pretty easy to recognize in most languages.

Just as the trucks were moving past his location, Sherlock picked up on an even more telling clue to the identity of the people in trucks than a few words on one label. He was too far away to understand most of the conversations between the men, but he was able to hear a smattering of Russian words. The two languages were fairly similar, but the dialect these men were using was not Ukrainian. Of course, this part of Ukraine had more Russian speakers than the rest of the country, but soldiers in the Ukrainian army were unlikely to be speaking the language of the other country.

Sherlock hid in his entryway for ten minutes after the convoy finished passing his location, to make sure they hadn’t noticed him. A glance at the mobile screen showed it was almost time for him to meet up with Alexey. They had met every afternoon at Alexey’s shop to trade information. He hadn’t seen Boris Slakov since he had been dropped on the beach near Yalta; Alexey had been acting as a go-between to avoid raising suspicions. The mechanic was far less intelligent than either Maks or Boris, but he seemed trustworthy enough so Boris wouldn't have to risk being seen meeting with him on a regular basis

The crowds in the street made it much more complicated to get from the city center down to the harbor. Sherlock was pretty sure he wasn’t being followed, but it wasn’t possible to be completely sure, not with the huge crowds everywhere. Sherlock didn’t really relax until he was safely inside the fenced-in yard at the back of Alexey’s shop. There were several broken-down cars back here, as well as the usual stacks of car parts. While he waited for Alexey, who had nodded at him as he had passed in front of the shop, Sherlock pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He scribbled a few more notes about today’s protests to the bottom of his latest report. Finally, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pulled today’s SIM card from the slot. Fortunately, one of the few supplies Mycroft had given him before he had departed England had been a large stash of the small cards. Sending these out of the country was certainly easier and less conspicuous than dossiers full of photographs. He had just finished securing it to the report and sealing the envelope when Alexey stepped out the back door of the shop.

“Everything is more intense today,” Sherlock commented as the other man moved towards him. “Any idea why?” He watched as the other man gave a quick look around before answering.

“Rumors are running rampant that the President has vanished.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, more than a little startled by this information. Why would he flee after signing a compromise just last night?

“Well, the guards around his palace have all disappeared and no one saw him leave,” Alexey responded quietly. Sherlock began to pace the yard as the possibilities started swarming in his head.

“Could he just be hiding somewhere on his estate?”

“No,” the other man answered almost too quickly. Sherlock shot him a look and the other man sighed before he continued. “When the guards disappeared, the people took that as an invitation to see what was behind the gates. The news is full of the pictures they are taking. What they’ve found has shocked a lot of people.”

“Oh? Did he leave a mistress chained up in the basement?”

“No,” Alexey replied with a chuckle, “but the evidence of his embezzlement is quite eye-opening. He’s apparently taken a page from Putin over the last few years.” Sherlock nodded, still thinking fast, as the other man detailed some of the more outrageous discoveries on the estate. He didn’t pay attention to the details, but from the length of the other man’s list, it seemed like Yanukovych had been quite successful at living well off the labours of his citizens.

“Today’s crowd here was much more Pro-Russian than usual.” Sherlock commented absently as he paced, once the listing of extravagances was finished. He swallowed a curse as the various threads of this intrigue refused to reveal themselves. Yet again, he found himself wishing that John was here to help him crystalize everything running through his head. There were just too many possibilities clogging his thought processes. Hell, Maks would be almost as useful as John in the current circumstances. His knowledge of Ukrainian/Russian relations would certainly keep him focused on the right path. There were just too many possibilities to be sure he was on the right path.

If Sherlock was honest, he had discovered on this mission that he just wasn’t comfortable or efficient when he was working on his own any more. Even if Maks wasn’t quite the conductor of light that John had been, the agent had helped focus his thoughts in several key instances while they had worked together, both over the last six weeks and while they had collaborated four years ago. Ever since he had left London, Sherlock had felt like he hadn’t been working on all cylinders; his intellect, which used to function so brilliantly in solitude, now needed more than an audience. It seemed to need a partner to reach its full potential. With a disgusted sigh, Sherlock shook himself out of his funk. He really needed to stop wasting time for things he wasn’t to have again.

“If the President really has fled,” he continued as if he hadn’t wandered down a mental side street, “that could certainly explain the mood changes in the crowd. Anyone the people on the mainland would elect at this point wouldn’t be as Pro-Russian as the people here would like.” He paced around the yard once more before stopping in front of Alexey and handing over the envelope. “Here’s the latest to give to Boris.” Alexey took it and paused for a minute before pulling an envelope out of his pocket and handing it over. Sherlock looked at it for a second, recognizing the address as Maks’ handwriting. He shoved it in his pocket; he wasn't sure what the other agent had to tell him, but this wasn't the place to read it.

After bidding goodbye to Alexey, Sherlock headed down towards the end of the harbour. The Russian fleet had a base on the other side of the harbour and Sherlock was sure that was the entry point for all the Russian agents and arms that seemed to materialize in the city on a daily basis. Unfortunately, it was hard for him to track of the traffic in the bay; it would have been a natural assignment for his homeless network back home, but he couldn't risk trying to rope in a stranger to help him right now. There was just no way to tell if someone was working for the Russian government. Since his attention was mostly focused on the developing protests, Sherlock’s observations about the traffic at the naval base were limited to extremely basic information. There were more ships docked at the base than there had been the first day. Alexey had only been able to tell him that there were more Russian ships around than he thought there had been before everything had started.

Looking over the imposing ships lined up on the docks across the harbour, Sherlock was confident that Putin was indeed sending people and arms to try to annex the peninsula for his own purposes. The man had a tsarist streak the like of which hadn’t been seen since the Bolshevik revolution. He didn’t even bother to try to cloak his intentions anymore; everyone knew Vladimir Putin had delusions of grandeur, after all. After a few minutes staring at the ships, Sherlock remembered the envelope he had hastily shoved in his pocket back in the mechanics yard. He pulled the now wrinkled paper out and ripped open the flap as he checked to make sure no one was watching him.

The only thing in the envelope was a short note from Maks; Sherlock was surprised by the wave of relief that crashed through him at the sight of the other man's handwriting. This was the first time he had heard directly from him since they had parted ways in Krasnodar. Alexey had told him yesterday that Boris had seen Maks in Odessa, but first-hand communication was definitely more reassuring than third-hand messages passed through the grapevine. Sherlock frowned as he read the sparse words; the message wasn’t encoded, precisely, but it was a bit more formal than he would have expected from Maks.

_Boris says you made it safely. I admit I am reassured by the ease of your passage. The whole region is in upheaval; it took me a full day longer to make it than I had planned._

_Keep in touch. Alexey can get in touch with me directly if necessary._

That was it; four brief sentences, but Maks’ words did bring a kind of peace to Sherlock. Given the chaos in Ukraine, it wouldn't have been that surprising if Maks had been detained while trying to cross the country. It was also a stroke of good fortune for Sherlock. He trusted Maks to correctly interpret the raw intelligence he was sending out. He was relieved to know there was a way to contact Maks if it became necessary; Sherlock knew, however, that he couldn’t risk Maks’ safety by communicating with him too frequently. Alexey might be able to make the occasional unnoticed phone call, but it was better to save those in case of an emergency.

Folding the letter and returning it to his pocket, Sherlock looked over the skyline of Sevastopol. It was getting close to sunset. He sighed and turned away from the harbour. The city around him showed no signs of quieting down; as boisterous as the protests had been this afternoon, it was probably a safe bet that they would continue for hours yet. Unfortunately, since he had no backup, Sherlock was hesitant to be out after dark. He didn’t want to run afoul of one of the rowdier groups of protesters that had taken to roaming the streets at night. Getting beaten up by thugs disguised as protesters wasn't necessarily the plan. If he was caught before the situation here played itself out, it would mean that Sherlock had failed and someone else would have to come in and finish what he had been unable to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always, any comments, feedback and/or corrections are welcome. Sorry this is a little late; I'm going to blame the 6+ inches of snow we were gifted to celebrate the first of March. 
> 
> I should probably point out that I'm making up some of the details about what happened in Sevastopol; there were Pro-Russian protests, but the activities of the Russian naval fleet and the particulars about what happened on the streets are my own invention, based on various reports of what happened.
> 
> Next update should be next weekend, which I'm going to declare extends to Monday evening, just to cover whatever weather calamity strikes next. It's supposed to rain tomorrow, which probably means I'll be building an ark to escape the flooding we are sure to get. :)


	20. Chapter 20

**February 22**

John stood in front of the two graves, staring down at the patches of freshly-dug earth at his feet. It was all done now; there were nothing left that he could do for them. Behind him, the small group of people who had come to the funeral milled around, hugging and talking quietly to each other. The service had been nice, according to the few people who had attempted to talk to him. That was good, he supposed; he had no idea what had been said or done during it. None of the proceedings had penetrated the fog of pain and guilt that had enveloped John over the last few days. Fortunately, most of the people weren’t trying to talk to him, which was absolutely fine. He didn’t think he could string three coherent words together for anything. Standing here in the cold sunshine, he felt like he had been trapped in one of those time-lapse videos that were so popular on the Internet; he was frozen in place, while everyone else was just a blur on the edges of his consciousness.

John couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right back where he had been after Sherlock had stepped off the rooftop of St. Bart’s four years ago. He had been afraid this would happen. One of the few conscious choices he had made about the funeral arrangements was that he didn’t want Mary’s and Elizabeth’s service to turn into a carbon copy of Sherlock’s. He had chosen a cemetery in a completely different part of London. The stones were white granite rather than black marble and they were in a sunny part of the lawn, rather than under a tree. He had let Mrs. Hudson and the funeral director make the rest of the decisions, but he had been adamant about those.

But none of those deliberate differences had ended up making that much of a difference. John felt like he had fallen through a wormhole and ended up in the exact same emotional space he had been trapped in during the aftermath of Sherlock’s fall. Once again, he was reduced to standing in a cold cemetery, staring at grave markers and trying to remember to breathe through the giant ache in his chest. Once again, the ache in his chest from the sudden loss of loved ones was crippling. There was nothing he could do to bring the people he had lost back into his life. Mary, Elizabeth and Sherlock were all gone, and no amount of pleading at headstones would do anything to change that.

The last week had been nothing but a haze of pain and confusion. Except for the few hours he had spent in Mrs. Hudson's flat with the funeral director yesterday afternoon, John had spent every moment hiding in the shadowy confines of his former flat. A few friends had come around to see if they could help, but Mrs. Hudson had been an absolute angel and kept everyone at bay. He wanted to be left alone in his suffering, not be forced to make conversation with people who meant well. He hadn’t even let Greg come upstairs, and the DI had been to his other flat twice now to bring clean clothes and other essentials. Greg had been very understanding, leaving the bags with Mrs. Hudson to bring up after he left.

His desire to stay in Baker Street was just about the only change between what he had been through before and his current emotional state. Four years ago, the flat had felt like a tomb, the walls pressing in on him from all sides; the memories and guilt had been an oppressive force and the echoes of his adventures with Sherlock an ever-present reminder of the friend he had failed so badly. During the last week, however, it had felt exactly the opposite. The memories of his time with Sherlock had eased the jagged edges of his grief a little. The guilt, anger and betrayal that had caused most of the fights with Mary were still there, spectres that lingered in the shadows of his subconscious. But it had been subsumed, at least temporarily, by the all the other tumultuous emotions John was drowning under.

He had spent the majority of the last four days coping with the shattering sadness that flooded him every time he remembered the helplessness of holding his daughter while she had struggled through her last breaths; it was mixed with anger and guilt over how he had been unable to recognize the severity of Mary’s illness and his failings as a husband when she had needed him. There were only so many emotions that he could deal with at any given time; at times, it was all he could do to breathe.

The only thing he wanted to do for the foreseeable future was sink into his chair back in Baker Street and just let the world go on without him. He knew there were a lot of details that needed to be seen to, but he had absolutely no desire to start working on any of them. He had only spoken briefly with his boss on Tuesday afternoon; she had given John as much time off as he needed and told him not to worry about his job - it would be there when he was ready for it. He was relieved, he supposed, that he didn't have to worry about rushing back to work. It was one less distant worry that he could keep on ignoring for now. He also needed to go back to the house he had shared with Mary, to get the few things he really cared about and decide what to do with the rest of their belongings. But every time he had considered leaving Baker Street, John had begun to shake and sweat profusely, so he kept putting it off. He knew he would have to face it sometime, but he didn’t have a clue when he would be able to think of cleaning out that brightly-decorated nursery without risking a nervous breakdown.

The sound of a twig snapping behind him dragged John out of the mental funk he had been sinking into. As the wind whipped through the graveyard, John was aware for the first time that his cheeks were soaked with tears. Turning slightly away from the gravestones, John tried to smile as he saw Mrs. Hudson making her way towards him, but he just couldn’t manage it. The subtle scent of her perfume soothed his anguish slightly as she came to stand next to him. She didn’t try to make him speak; she just grabbed his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder amongst the graves, looking at the two newest stones for a minute before turning and slowly making their way towards the road and the waiting car.

\--

The peace and quiet of the Diogenes Club was a welcome relief after spending the morning at the funeral. Mycroft supposed that it had been fulfilling, in the awkward manner that was the norm for these types of functions. At the very least, the outpouring of grief had been mostly genuine, unlike the state affairs he tended to frequent. Most of those were filled with people who had never said a kind word about the deceased while they had been alive. It had been more than a little dull, if he was honest.

Mycroft had forced himself to linger at the edge of the cemetery for ten minutes the conclusion of the service, watching the crowd as they mingled around the freshly-dug graves. Thankfully, none of the other attendees had attempted to engage in pointless remembrances with him. Mycroft had been present only to fulfil his promise to keep an eye on John Watson for his brother. And it was probably a good thing that he had attended. Frankly, he was quite worried by the significant changes in the other man’s appearance since their last meeting. He didn’t look like he had slept at all; his skin had a greyish tinge and it was obvious that he had started to drop weight. His most troublesome observation was that, unless he was very much mistaken, John’s psychosomatic limp had returned. It wasn’t an unexpected development, of course, but it was still startling to see physical evidence of the strain the doctor was struggling under. Before he had even left the parking lot, Mycroft had ordered additional surveillance for the doctor; it would be unfortunate if anything were to happen to him at this juncture. 

Thankfully, the public show was over now. He certainly wasn't going to waste energy pretending to mourn the woman who had nearly killed his brother. While he might have respected Sherlock’s wish and not interfered in the Watson’s marriage, he hadn't been willing to leave John Watson's safety to chance and faith. He had kept one of his underlings monitoring any threats that might develop thanks to Mary Morstan's past illegal activities. The details of that surveillance were in one of the three folders in front of him. A quick glance through the most recent additions showed that there had been no significant developments in the months since Magnussen's death. That was reassuring, at least; Mycroft made a note to step down the surveillance in three months, once he was sure any lingering threat to his brother's best friend was well and truly passed. Mycroft closed the file on Mary Morstan firmly and pushed it away; he hoped it was the last time he ever had to look at it.

After a second, he turned his attention to the other two folders waiting his attention; the contents of each promised to be infinitely more interesting than the exploits of the late Mary Morstan. Anthea had given him the daily security briefing on Eastern Europe as he had left the funeral, warning that there had been several critical developments in the past day. He ignored that file for now, however, in favour of the second report, which contained the preliminary DNA testing results he had ordered a week ago. There were only a few pages in the file; while he had expedited the testing, it would take at least another week before he could get the final results. The initial indications would probably be sufficient to give him an indication of the best way to proceed; he poured over all three pages in the report before slumping back in his chair, visibly stunned by what he had just read.

The conclusion was irrefutable, concrete beyond any reasonable error margin: the DNA from the body in the morgue, which he had personally recovered from Bart's rooftop, did not match the DNA that they had collected from James Moriarty when he had been in their custody.

He had considered this the least likely outcome possible outcome when he had ordered the testing. After a minute, he got over the worst of the shock and started debating his options. There were two possible explanations that he needed to consider before making his next move. The first and most likely possibility was that James Moriarty had somehow faked his suicide, just as Sherlock had done. It would have been extremely difficult to fake that kind of death, especially given his proximity to Sherlock at the time; it would have been much more involved than the tricks his brother had used on to deceive John Watson. And while Sherlock had not been at his sharpest that day, he still would have noticed if the gunshot wound had been an obvious fake. Given his various criminal ventures, Moriarty certainly would have had the connections and resources necessary to pull off this type of charade. There had also been that small window of time where the body had been unguarded, after Sherlock jumped but before Mycroft had arrived on to the rooftop himself. Those few minutes would almost certainly have been enough time for someone to stage the scene.

The second possibility was that someone had tampered with the samples that had been collected while Moriarty had been in custody. While Mycroft’s storage and data facilities had the best security systems money could buy, the Adler affair had proven that a person with enough determination could certainly find a way to fake whatever records they chose. Additionally, Moriarty had many more connections than Irene Adler and had proven that he was extremely efficient at identifying employees who could be bribed. Pulling a sheet of paper out of the desk, Mycroft spent a few minutes creating a list of investigations that would need to be carried out immediately. He needed more information if he was going to be able to use these results as leverage with his colleagues.

Once the list was sent on its way to Anthea, Mycroft sat back in his chair with a deep sigh. He needed a minute to clear his head before diving into the last file. He might not have an elaborate Mind Palace like Sherlock, but he still needed to take time now and again to make sure that his brain was focused on the task at hand. There was absolute silence in the office for three minutes before Mycroft blinked his eyes open again, ready to set back to work.

It took another thirty minutes for Mycroft to read all the reports and news clipping that Anthea had included for his perusal. The situation was indeed growing dire. All over the Ukraine, the protests were growing more and more violent as the citizens demanded that their government align itself with the West instead of Russia and that morning, the Ukrainian President had vanished from his post, only increasing the chaotic atmosphere. There were a few scattered reports that the situation on Crimea was very different than the rest of the country, which wasn't unexpected. That was the area that Putin coveted most, and the area where the majority of the citizens still identified as Russian instead of Ukrainian. The intelligence from the peninsula echoed the data that had been recovered in Sherlock's break-in several weeks ago. Mycroft felt a burst of filial pride that his brother had been proven correct. 

The general overview of the situation paled in comparison to the data that had been passed along from Ivan Nikov – data that Sherlock had personally recovered a week ago from the general’s meeting in Krasnodar. The amount of detail he had uncovered was truly remarkable for undercover operatives; it included unprecedented detail about troop deployments in the entire region and briefs describing the covert missions in progress. Mycroft couldn't be sure that Sherlock knew what he had uncovered; surely he hadn't taken the time to read each and every one of the hundreds of files he had collected. But there were notes from the head of MI6 expressing their admiration that the operative in question had managed to find information that their normal field agents had never stumbled across. Mycroft let a smile blossom on his face, inexpressibly pleased at his brother's achievements and more than a little hopeful that he could parlay that success into at least a temporary stay of his fate. When combined with the information that James Moriarty might have slipped their net, this could be just the right foundation that Mycroft could use to base his case for removing Sherlock from the region before the inevitable end of his mission.

Just as Mycroft began to turn his mind to planning the next stage of his plan, he caught sight of a piece of paper that had been buried at the bottom of the file. It was a note from Nikov himself, which was certainly unusual. The man had never bothered to include any kind of personal addition to the briefs before now. As Mycroft scanned it, the smile came crashing down off his face. According to Nikov, the operatives in Krasnodar had moved to new locations to better observe and document the situation. One had moved to Odessa while the other was now embedded in Sevastopol, passing along first-hand data on the developing situation. Mycroft collapsed against the chair back as the truth of the situation dawned on him; he was absolutely positive that Sherlock was the agent who had gone into Sevastopol. Maks Lysenko had a personal history that made it extremely dangerous for him to enter Crimea, so he was obviously the person in Odessa; he was no doubt acting as a liaison, assisting in transmitting any information that Sherlock managed to acquire. This was Mycroft’s worst-case scenario; he had counted on the other agent’s presence to temper some of his brother’s impetuousness and prolong his life as long as possible. But now, Sherlock was in an extremely dangerous environment by himself; the extraction mission just became all the more critical and dangerous. The whole situation was likely to explode at any minute and, if the Russians captured him, his brother would almost certainly be killed before Mycroft even heard about it. They wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate someone they recognized as a Western spy.

He had to act, and act fast, to keep his baby brother safe. The time for planning was definitely behind him now. It was time to start building the case for action. Sherlock was running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - I'm really sorry this update is so late. No weather-related excuses this time, I'm afraid. My schedule is a little in flex right now, and I'm working to make sure I still have time reserved for writing. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for continuing to read my story and all comments and feedback are welcome. The next update should happen the weekend of March 21-22.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for a brief mention of Sherlock's prior drug habit. Nothing major, but if you are sensitive, please read carefully!

**February 27**

Even in the stillness just before dawn, there was a palpable tension in and around the city of Sevastopol. Sherlock felt like the city was balanced on a knife-edge, just waiting to see which external force would push them into the chaos building around them. Since the Ukrainian President had disappeared two days ago, the situation on the entire peninsula had grown increasingly unstable, almost on an hourly basis. The protests had grown larger and were noticeably more organized than they had been even a few days ago. They were also almost universally Pro-Russian. While there had been a few Pro-Ukrainian gatherings since his arrival, those citizens were largely becoming invisible on the streets. Anyone demonstrating for a Pro-Western allegiance was almost immediately met by larger, more vocal groups supporting Putin and Russia. Skirmishes between the two groups were becoming more frequent, not to mention increasingly violent. It felt like the Pro-Russian groups were starting to win the battle of the streets; each day, they chased the Pro-Ukrainian protesters further towards the outskirts of the city. Rumour had it that a good deal of the Pro-Ukrainian population on the peninsula had started to flee towards the mainland. Tensions were running extremely high, not only here, but also in Simferopol according to the evening papers.

The whole peninsula was sitting on the top of a powder keg and now Sherlock was afraid he was staring at a lit match that threatened to ignite it all.

It was the early hours of the morning; dawn was just beginning to break over the skyline behind him. Sherlock was standing in one of his best vantage points that overlooked the bay and the naval base for the Black Sea Fleet. In the last twenty minutes or so, two highly suspicious looking ships had docked at the naval base and promptly started to unload both people and cargo. He wasn’t nearly close enough to see the finer details of the operation, but it definitely didn't appear to be a routine occurrence or changing of the guard stationed at the base. For one, there had been no answering flurry of activity to load the ships once they were emptied. Unless his instincts were completely off, he was looking at more Russian forces arriving from the mainland.

While Sherlock stood there on the rooftop observing what was happening, the feeling of immediate danger kept growing. It really did feel like the whole region was at a tipping point, where they were now felt much closer to a cataclysm than they had been even a day ago. Sherlock wasn’t sure what had caused the escalation; he hadn’t heard of any major announcements from the Kremlin in the last few days. Of course, the flow of outside news had been sporadic at best since he had arrived. The rumour mill was working in full force, of course, but it was focused primarily on what was happening both here and in Kiev, rather than anything developing on the other side of the Strait. He supposed it was natural for everyone to be focused primarily on what was happening in their neighbourhoods. What was happening in Russia was a nebulous idea when contrasted with the developments that everyone could see on the streets around them.

One of the biggest obstacles that Sherlock had been encountering in Crimea was that he really only had one trustworthy contact on the peninsula. In a situation as dangerous as this, it was almost impossible to identify people he could safely approach or convince to talk to him. With the number of Russian operatives in the region, he couldn’t risk approaching the wrong person. Almost anyone could be a Russian spy or informant. To complicate matters, as the situation in the city had grown more volatile, Alexey had been showing greater reluctance to be seen talking to him. He was still willing to pass messages along to Boris, but the mechanic hadn’t been willing to talk to Sherlock; several times now, he had given the excuse that the shop was too busy at the moment. Given the emptiness of most shops in the streets, it was patently an excuse, but Sherlock understood the motives behind the lies. Alexey was worried about his own survival as the city heaved with turmoil. 

Sherlock had to allow that his fears weren’t completely unfounded. It was extremely hard to tell the allegiances of anyone in particular on the street, even if they were taking part in one of the protests. The ethnic Russians were showing more outward signs of their real allegiances, it was true, but that didn’t mean it was safe to assume that anyone not adorned in Russian flags and pins was Pro-Ukrainian. There had to be a significant percentage of the population made up of people like Alexey; people who showed no real allegiance to either side and were just doing their best to survive the firestorm.

Just as Sherlock had decided he couldn’t risk observing the naval base any longer, a silhouette in the distance caught his eye. He lingered for a few minutes more, waiting until the boat had moved out of the fog that hovered over the Black Sea. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the small fishing vessel; he had been hoping to meet Boris personally this morning to pass along the information about the ships that had just arrived. Up to now, he had been content to simply use Alexey as the go-between, but it was absolutely vital that the pictures he had taken of the ships was sent on their way to Nikov and Mycroft as quickly as possible. 

As Sherlock headed down to the dock, he pulled a mostly-full pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He could feel the weight of John’s disapproving gaze even now, but he had decided it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was going to live long enough to get lung cancer anyway. From the first puff he had taken last night, Sherlock had felt his mind clear and fitting the pieces of this complex puzzle together had seemed so much easier. While it didn’t compare with the clarity that he had always gotten from cocaine, it was certainly better than continually banging his head against the inside of his skull in frustration. 

Sherlock reached the dock area just as Boris’ boat was approaching the pier. The city was slightly busier down here than in the streets he had walked though, but it seemed like the unrest was keeping some of the fishermen at home. As he watched Boris manoeuvre his boat through the harbour, Sherlock slipped into the shadows of a nearby warehouse while also keeping an eye out for anyone tracking his movements. Once the boat had bumped into the dock, Boris stepped out of the wheelhouse and Sherlock flicked the lighter in his hands a few times, to draw his attention. Sure enough, after a minute, the brief flickers of flame caught the older man’s eyes and he paused, searching for the source of the light. Sherlock moved the lighter up towards his face and flicked it once more time; Boris gave a brief flick of his head, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He lingered in the shadows of the warehouse, pale eyes continuously sweeping the surrounding area searching for threats while he finished his cigarette. It took three minutes for Max to finish securing the boat and conduct a little business with the dock master. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the other man came over to join him.

“What are you doing here?” the fisherman asked in a worried undertone. 

“Two large, unmarked military ships docked at the naval base within the last hour,” Sherlock said. Boris stiffened slightly, but he obviously wasn’t too surprised. Of course, being a fisherman, it was probably hard to hide that kind of activity on the Black Sea. “The number of unmarked patrols through the city has increased significantly over the last few days and those two ships just unloaded more men and equipment.” After another quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. It only took a second to pull the SIM card from the back so he could hand it over to the other man. Boris fingered the chip for a moment before nodding and slipping it into an inside pocket on his jacket.

“Things are really heating up here,” Sherlock continued after a moment. “The protests are getting larger and the people are showing more signs of anger every day. It’s only a matter of time before this situation explodes.”

“I noticed,” Boris confirmed, looking worried. “In Odessa and other areas, it’s much the same. The protesters want different goals, obviously, but it seems like the whole country is on edge.” He shot another worried look around the harbour. “Have you noticed anything else?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, throwing his cigarette down on the ground and extinguishing it with his shoe tip. “I left a report with Alexey last night for you, but I don’t know how much longer we can use him as an intermediary.”

Boris sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before he continued. “Alexey is a good man, but I’m not sure about the men he employs. I’ve noticed one of them watching me like a hawk every time I’m there, even though I’ve been visiting that shop for more than a decade.” Sherlock nodded, not surprised. He had tried to stay away from the other employees each time he had been there, but there was simply no guarantee that someone hadn’t noticed him.

“Well, be careful,” Sherlock warned Boris, shaking his hand briefly. “I appreciate all your help, but don’t do anything that might get you arrested. I can’t do anything to protect you if you are arrested.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” Boris replied seriously. “I know the risks. Don’t worry about me, young man.” 

Sherlock had to fight the urge to laugh. He was glad he had met Boris Slakov on this mission. In other circumstances, he realized that he might have enjoyed listening to the tales the other man surely had of his life at sea. In a lot of ways, Boris was living the life that Sherlock had dreamed for himself as a child. After a brief but warm handshake, he watched as Boris headed away from the dock in in the direction of Alexey’s shop. There was an old engine part in his hand, and Sherlock smiled at the other man’s cleverness. No wonder he was one of Maks’ most trusted contacts; he was a smart and undoubtedly resourceful person to have around in chaotic situation. Putting the fisherman from his mind, Sherlock lingered in the shadows of the alleyway for a few more minutes, idly watching the boats move around the harbour while he debated what he should do next. A few people he had overheard on the streets yesterday had mentioned that the protests in Simferopol were even more potentially violent than those that had been happening here. Maybe it was time for a short road trip to the capital to see the situation for himself.

\---

It was late afternoon, and Sherlock was positive now that he had indeed been staring at the lit match in the harbour of Sevastopol this morning. Shortly after he had left the city this morning, he had caught sight of a caravan of those unmarked trucks heading along the same road as he had travelling. He had followed them almost the entire trip, all while doing his best to keep from drawing their notice. Once they had reached the outskirts of Simferopol, Sherlock had been careful to head in a completely different direction, in case they had been tracking him. He had circled the city for a little while before finding a place to leave the car, which he hoped was a safe distance from where all the action was going down. During his hike to the city centre, he had indeed seen signs that the situation was distinctly more dangerous than what was happening on the coast. The situation in the city could only optimistically be categorized as chaotic. The streets were absolutely filled with blatantly Pro-Russian protesters. 

The protesters had all convened in the open spaces around the Crimean Parliament building. Sherlock had fought his way to the back of the crowd, trying to observe as much of the goings-on as possible while still staying on the fringe. Over the last thirty minutes, Sherlock had watched as groups of the same unmarked troops had erected barricades around the building, which had resulted in a loud cheer from the people. A few minutes later, the crowds became even more boisterous as they watched a large Russian flag being raised on the flagpole on top the building. Cheers and screams echoed up and down the streets; before long, the people were all chanting about the glory of the Russia. As he watched the hysterical masses, Sherlock saw more armed guards arrive and join the ones already protecting the barricades. It was fairly obvious that something major was happening here.

As he stood there, listening to the excited babble of the crowds and watching the armed guards move around the outside of the building, Sherlock longed to discover what was going on inside the building. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to see into the barricaded building. There were some short office blocks in the area, but attempting to break in would hardly be discreet in this crowd. There was a cathedral at the back of the green space in front of the Parliament, surrounded by construction fences and scaffolding. It wasn’t a secure fence by any means, but yet again, any attempts to climb the fence was sure to be spotted by any number of armed guards. Getting arrested by Russian soldiers was a quick ticket in front of a firing squad. He wished he had more time; there was obviously something major going on inside the building and it could end up being highly relevant to his mission. But there was no way he could take that risk to attempt something impetuously. 

As Sherlock was debating his options, another commotion broke out near the front doors of the Parliament building. The crowd grew even more passionate as some officials appeared to be fleeing the scene. Sherlock looked around, trying to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, word flew back through the crowd from the direction of the doors. Everyone started shouting gleefully and waiving their flags. It was hard to be sure, but from what was being said around him, it sounded like the Parliament (no doubt under the ‘supervision’ of the armed guards) had voted to immediately sever all ties with Ukraine. The crowd was growing more hysterical, it was becoming downright dangerous to be out here. Sherlock tried to shove his way through the crowd, but he gave up after a few minutes. There was no way he would be able to get to the front of the crowd and see what was happening. He could barely see the building any more through the plethora of waving flags. 

As the mood in the streets became more and more uncontrolled, Sherlock decided it was time to slip away. As he slid between the shouting and cheering protesters, he realized his premonition from this morning had indeed been correct. The arrival of those ships had indeed been the lit match that had exploded the tense standoff. It wouldn’t be long before Putin made his move, especially with the current appearance that the vast majority of people on the peninsula would welcome his rule.

It took quite a long time for him to escape the ever-growing throng. Every time Sherlock felt like he had finally reached the edge of the protests, he had turned a corner and discovered another crowd of people. It took much longer to get back to the quiet industrial area where he had abandoned Boris’ car than it had taken to reach the city centre a few hours ago. Sherlock was exhausted, mentally and physically; he dreaded the drive back to Sevastopol, but if he didn’t head back now, there wouldn’t be time to write a report before he was due to meet with Alexey in the morning.

Just as he was almost to the car, a loud noise broke the quiet. Sherlock’s head jerked around, but he couldn’t see what had made the noise. He fought the urge to duck into the shadows; if he was being followed, that would be a dead giveaway that he was up to something suspicious. A couple more quick glances over his shoulder still didn’t reveal anyone in his immediate vicinity. He supposed the noise could have come from a stray animal or someone putting out the trash. There hadn’t been another sound and he didn’t necessarily feel like someone was following him. But there was no denying that he was seriously spooked by the incident.

Two minutes later, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he slid into the driver’s seat of the old clunker and locked the door. He gave one last quick glance around in his mirrors, relief flowing through him when he didn’t see any other signs of movement. He felt himself start to shake in response to that last scare, but he couldn’t afford to wait for the weakness to pass. He needed to get out of here, and quickly. He was carrying a phone full of pictures of the protests and developments today. He needed to get back to Sevastopol and write up a new report. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were even some of the same men he had managed to observe the other day in Sevastopol. It was vital that he get this information off his person and on its way back to Nikov and Mycroft.

Sherlock drove out of the city and back to Sevastopol, checking every few minutes to make sure that no one was following him. He was so close to a major breakthrough here; he couldn’t afford to fail just as the exciting part of the drama was about to unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still reading! I can honestly say when I started writing this over the summer, I had no idea the story would be this long or have quite such an involved plot. As always, I welcome any and all feedback! 
> 
> Next update should be in a week or so. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

**February 27**

All around Maks Lysenko, the sights and sounds of the busy harbour filled the air. The weak winter, late-afternoon sun wasn’t nearly warm enough to counteract the brutal winter wind whipping off the Black Sea. Maks stood huddled in the shadows of a warehouse near one of the main wharves, trying to stay warm while also keeping an eye on the numerous fishing and shipping boats that he could see. Almost every available docking space was filled with boats loading or unloading, while several were bobbing near the break wall, obviously waiting for their turn to dock. It was a scene Maks had witnessed many times before. He had spent countless hours as a young boy in a port like this, watching and helping his grandfather work on his fishing boat. It didn’t feel like much had changed in the past twenty years. All around him, the captains and crews filled their time in port with the same conversations that would have been heard here in the days of his grandfather.

But for the first time in his life, the sights and sounds of a busy harbour weren’t bringing him any peace of mind. Today, the constant noise and activity were grating on his nerves and diminishing his patience. During the hour that he had been standing here, each loud shout or crash had only increased the tension headache brewing at the base of his skull. The reason for his increased tension today was perfectly obvious: Boris hadn’t arrived in port yet today. Of course, fishermen never operated on a set schedule, but in all the years Maks had known the other man, Boris had always preferred docking in Odessa in the early afternoon; he said it was generally easier to navigate the busy harbour just after lunchtime. But the sun was now getting lower in the sky and a glance at his watch showed that it was getting closer to dinner time. Maks was seriously getting concerned. He had asked the dock manager if he had missed Boris, but according to the book, he hadn’t been at the dock today at all.

Maks was starting to feel uncomfortable; unfortunately, it wouldn’t be safe for him to linger in the area for much longer. With all the upheaval in the country, everyone in Odessa seemed to be jumpier than normal and more wary of strangers hanging around. Getting arrested for loitering would be extremely inconvenient, to say the least. While the city wasn’t overrun with the violent or explosive protests that were gripping other parts of the country, there were still large crowds of people in the streets every day; like the citizens in Kiev, the people in Odessa were cautiously pleased with the developments over the last few days. They had cheered the news that President Yanukovyh had vanished and the announcement of a pro-Western temporary government and full elections had caused waves of euphoria to break out across the city.

But the fact that the largest protests had been Pro-Western didn't mean that everyone in the city was of the same view. Maks had heard rumours that a few groups of suspicious people had been seen in the last few weeks. Since Odessa was a busy seaport with an advantageous location on the north edge of the Black Sea, it wasn't beyond the scope of possibility that Putin had sent a few agents here as well as into Crimea. Putin could certainly be looking to extend Russia’s territory not only into Crimea, but also into the Ukrainian mainland as well. The idea of making Ukraine essentially landlocked would no doubt hold some attraction to the egotistical ruler and it would have devastating effects on the Ukrainian economy.

A glance down at his watch showed that he had been lingering in the harbour for almost two full hours now. While he had changed locations twice since his arrival, Maks was reaching the limit of how long he could remain in the area safely. There was always the possibility that Boris just wasn’t going to dock here today. But just as he was about to head back into the centre of the city, a shiver of relief passed up his spine as he caught sight of Boris' boat just entering the mouth of the break wall. As he watched the small boat make slow progress through the crowded seaport, the knot in his stomach started to loosen slightly at last.

It felt like an eternity passed before the boat arrived at the dock. Boris gave a slight wave in his direction as the boat bumped up against the pier; Maks sat back to wait while the other man tied the moorings and spent a few minutes talking with the dock master. It was too noisy and busy for Maks to pick out their conversation, but judging by the relaxed smile on Boris's face, it wasn’t anything other than their usual repartee. Boris had been a mainstay in almost all the fishing ports on the Black Sea for decades; it stood to reason that he would have developed friendships with the men he dealt with on a day-to-day basis. After a quick handshake, Boris turned away from the dock master and finally headed in his direction.

"I was starting to get worried," he said as Boris joined him in the shadows of the warehouse. "You're later than normal today." Maks grimaced at his abrupt greeting; he had obviously started to pick up Sherlock’s complete lack of social graces.

"There was a lot of traffic on the water today. It took longer than normal to make all my deliveries." the other man replied as his eyes swept over their surroundings. Maks shot him a questioning look. It was the end of February; the sea should have been fairly quiet. It was hardly high tourism season, for example. Boris shot him an exasperated look, as Maks obviously failed to grasp the significance of his statement.

“The waters around Sevastopol have been noticeably busier than normal, especially for this time of year. I decided to change things up to avoid some of the worst of it." Maks frowned as he started to understand the other man’s point. He really was slow today if he hadn’t considered how the ongoing political drama would affect the shipping channels. "Plus, I bumped into your friend down at the docks first thing this morning."

Maks' head whipped around at that announcement. Boris had told him when he had first arrived in Odessa that he and Sherlock had decided to limit their direct conversations to keep both of them safe; they were going to use Alexey as an intermediary except for emergencies. Since Boris was a familiar face to most of the people there, his typical movements and contacts were pretty well known; the wrong people would be sure to notice if he started suddenly meeting with a complete stranger.

"What did he have to say?' Maks asked slowly as his mind racing with possibilities. None of the developments that would cause Sherlock to abandon their safeguards could be considered good news. But he had to admit that a small part of himself was greatly relieved at the confirmation that as of this morning, Sherlock had managed to avoid being arrested while he was on his own.

“He saw some highly-suspicious ships arrive in the port this morning," Boris muttered, digging his hand into his jacket pocket. A second later, the weathered hand pulled out the envelope that contained Sherlock’s report as well as what looked like a SIM card. He snapped to attention; no doubt, whatever Sherlock had seen that had caused him to break protocol would be on that small chip.

"Did he tell you anything specific?" Maks asked as he took both items from Boris and slipped them into his own jacket pocket.

"Two large unmarked ships docked just before dawn; men and equipment were unloaded, but no one boarded before the ships left again," Maks replied in a barely audible undertone. "He said they looked just like the unmarked patrols that have been seen around the city over the last few days." Maks' momentary happiness was completely swallowed by a renewed sense of dread. Just what the peninsula didn’t need was more troops and weaponry that could only be from Russia; it certainly seemed like the situation in Crimea was very quickly coming to a head. 

The two men lingered in the shadows of the warehouse a minute more, the conversation turning to more mundane matters as they both checked for signs of someone watching their conversation. Once they were sure that no one was paying them any attention, they shook hands and Boris headed back to his boat.

As Maks watched Boris start to manoeuvre his boat out of the harbour, he felt the bulk of package in his pocket pull at his attention. He needed to examine Sherlock’s report as soon as possible; whatever was in there obviously needed to be passed along as soon as possible. As the boat disappeared into the Black Sea, Maks turned away from the harbour and started to head back to his flat. Despite his best efforts to keep his attention on the streets around him, he couldn’t stop himself from considering everything that Boris had said. More troops arriving in Crimea was definitely a bad sign; with the power void that currently existed in the country, it wouldn’t be that difficult for Putin to find an excuse to seize the embattled peninsula for his own purposes.

But as he neared the city centre, his attention was pulled out of his thoughts by the sudden increase in the noise of the city around him. Looking around, he noticed for the first time that there were crowds gathered around some of the store windows, obviously watching something that was being broadcast on the television. He lingered near the back of one of the crowds for a minute, but, to his frustration, he couldn't really see or hear what was happening. Luckily, a quick glance up and down the street revealed that there was a coffee shop nearby; it was already pretty crowded, but he was just able to squeeze in the door. As he took his place at the end of the long queue, he focused on the telly in the corner, which was in the middle of discussing a breaking news story.

"... reports from Simferopol appear to indicate that armed men have surrounded the parliament building." the newsreader was saying, over the top of shaky mobile phone video of a large crowd shouting and singing. Maks frowned as he studied the scene; it had definitely been filmed in Simferopol; he had been outside that very building on several different assignments over the years. All around him, the crowd in the cafe was almost completely silent, staring at the developments on the screen.

"In the last few minutes, we have had confirmation of the arrival of several members of the Crimean parliament and the crowds outside the building have grown more and more volatile." Another news reader continued, and Maks frowned as he studied the looped video footage of the crowds. It was frustrating that there wasn't a live video feed of the building; it was hard to figure out just how old this footage was. The broadcast cut back to the newsroom, much to Maks' frustration. There wasn’t anything he could learn from watching two people in a studio reading from a teleprompter. But just as he debated leaving the cafe, one of the newsreaders was handed a piece of paper from someone just off camera. The woman did a visible double-take, which only caused the knot in Maks’ stomach to tighten further.

"According to sources in Simferopol,” the newsreader said as she stared down at the paper in her hand, “the Crimean Parliament has just voted to dissolve the government and replace their Prime Minister," the newsreader read from the page, her shock obvious in the tone of her voice. “The parliament has appointed Sergey Aksyonov of the Russian Unity party as the new Prime Minister. Ukrainian law states that the Prime Minister of Crimea is appointed by the Ukrainian President, not by the Crimean parliament.” Maks tuned out her outraged commentary about the situation as he considered what he heard. That development, when combined with the information from Sherlock, confirmed all their worst suspicions; in short, this was a vote to realign Crimea with Russia, no doubt supported by those mystery patrols that Sherlock had been trying to identify.

Maks had heard enough; the mutterings and rants of newsreaders weren’t worth his time. It was much more important for him to go through the photos that Sherlock had managed to get this morning. No doubt Nikov had agents already analysing this latest development in much greater detail than he could. He ducked back out of the queue and made his way quickly out of the shop. There were a few mutters from the people in line behind him as they shuffled to let him through, but Maks barely paid them any attention as his mind raced with possibilities.

It took him almost an hour to fight his way through the growing crowds in order to get back to his flat. The streets of the city were rapidly filling up with people who were obviously worried and dismayed over the latest news. While the protests of the last few days had been mostly positive, the current crowds were wrestles and unsure about how these developments would affect the country. No one on the mainland wanted to lose any territory to the Russians; memories were long and most people hadn't forgotten the atrocities of the past.

Once he was finally back in his small flat on the northern edge of the town, Maks pulled the reports from Sherlock out of his pocket before throwing his coat down on the bed. While he waited for his netbook to boot, Maks opened the envelope and pulled out a second SIM card and a brief hand-written page. Sherlock’s focus in the written report was on the developments that he had witnessed yesterday on the streets of Sevastopol. There were many more of those unmarked patrols on the streets now than there had been when he had arrived, and Sherlock had noted that he had managed to overhear a couple conversations in what he was sure was Russian coming from the trucks as they moved through the city. The information on the patrols was the main focus on the report; Sherlock hadn’t included more than an overview on anything else. Maks wasn’t surprised by the lack of detail; Sherlock was trapped in an unfamiliar, extremely volatile city with almost no contacts on the ground. They were lucky he hadn't been arrested yet. The computer beeped on the table, signalling that it was finally finished loading, and Maks sighed as he slid the report to the side. Starting with the SIM card that wasn’t in the envelope, which he assumed was the more recent chip, Maks inserted it into the computer and waited anxiously to see what Sherlock had seen that morning.

Twenty minutes later, Maks sat slumped in the chair, watching the status bar move slowly across his screen as he uploaded Sherlock’s pictures into Nikov’s network. It was the one big benefit of being in stationed in Ukraine – he had a guaranteed secured network connection thanks to his own position in the Ukrainian intelligence department. It certainly made transmitting reports and photographs much easier.

Sherlock had been correct as usual; those had been Russian ships at the Black Sea Fleet base in Sevastopol this morning. Maks had recognized some of the more subtle markings that gave away their origins, despite their lack of overt insignia. The pictures of the cargo being unloaded were even more telling. The crates were undoubtedly Russian arms and supplies. Crimea was definitely a powder keg that was now primed to explode at the slightest provocation. And Sherlock was at the epicentre of it all.

Maks sighed. Concern for the younger man nagged at him. He knew that Sherlock expected the mission to conclude with his death; he had been explicitly clear about his expectations to Maks numerous times while they had been working together in Russia. But while Sherlock had been fully accepting of his fate, Maks wasn’t so comfortable with it all.

After he watched the status bar’s slow progress across the screen, Maks pulled his wallet out of his pocket and fished a small piece of paper from the back of it. He had never mentioned it to anyone, not even Sherlock, but during their only conversation, Mycroft Holmes had given him a phone number just before the call had ended. Staring at the digits he had written down two months ago, Maks remembered the explicit instructions he had received from the other man; it was that conversation that convinced him that Mycroft wasn’t nearly as accepting of his brother’s proposed fate either. He had been told to call this number if – and only if – the younger Holmes was in immediate and likely fatal danger. As he stared at the number, he could still hear the emotion that had been readily apparent in Mycroft’s voice. It had been very surprising that the seasoned agent would have let himself be that transparent. Mycroft Holmes was renowned in the intelligence community for being completely unemotional in all circumstances. Obviously Maks had stumbled onto the one exception to that rule.

Maks sighed as he tapped the paper against the table. As the progress bar showed that the upload was finally finished, he put the paper back into his wallet. It wasn’t time to call the number yet. But it was obvious that the time to use that number was rapidly approaching, whether they were ready for it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - I'm sorry this took so long to get updated. I should probably just plan on updating every two weeks for the foreseeable future as life always gets busier in the spring. I hope that's not too long between updates. 
> 
> As always, all feedback and comments are welcome! I'd love to hear how this is going for the readers. Thanks for continuing to read!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for brief violence.

**February 27 - 28**

It was well after dark by the time Sherlock made it back to the flat he was borrowing in Sevastopol. The trip back from Simferopol was fairly uneventful, aside from the fear that every set of headlights that appeared in his mirror belonged to someone tailing him. Fortunately, no car remained behind him long enough to cause more than that momentary flare of concern. Once he was inside the Sevastopol city limits, however, he discovered that the streets of the city were still clogged with protesters even, despite the fact that it was almost midnight. As a result, it took him more than an hour to make his way back to the rundown street where he was staying and he had developed a pounding tension headache. All he wanted to do was lie down in absolute silence and let his mind sort itself out. As he parked the car, though, the glow of the sign for the all-night deli at the end of the street caught his eye. The echoes of John nagging him to eat rang in his ears and he decided that getting some food in him just might help his state of mind.

As the bell over the door heralded his arrival, he was relieved to see that there was only one small group inside the small restaurant. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more rambunctious crowds tonight. The four older men already in the café were sitting at a table near the far wall, all wearing red, blue and white scarves; there was also at least one Russian flag draped over an empty chair. While he studied the menu board behind the counter, Sherlock kept one ear open to their excited conversation. From the sounds of it, they were discussing the outcome of the vote by Parliament this afternoon; all four men were visibly excited by the development, openly celebrating the news and discussing how long it would take for Putin to reclaim his rightful territory.

As he sank into a chair at the counter to wait for his food, Sherlock was tempted to tune out their conversation. They didn’t seem to have any specific information, but he argued with himself; sometimes the best intelligence came from the least promising sources after all. While the tired chef in the kitchen finished his meal, Sherlock stared blankly at the faded prints on the wall while keeping a small part of his attention on the other table. Fortunately, by the time his food was ready, Sherlock ruled out the need to linger in the café any longer; these men didn’t have any information he could actually use.

Five minutes later, the soft thump of the flat door closing and his tired sigh of relief were the only noises in the blissful silence of his rooms. Sherlock paused, leaning tiredly against the closed door, letting the silence soothe the edges of his ragged nerves. Eventually, he pushed himself away from the door and headed in the direction of the tiny, rickety table. As he forced himself to eat some of the uninspiring food he bought at the cafe, Sherlock wrote a brief summary of the scenes in Simferopol to include with his next report to Maks. His information would probably be extremely similar to what the news crews on hand had been able to capture, but it really didn't matter; it only took minutes to summarize what he had seen. 

Once the report was sealed in an envelope and the remainder of the takeaway had been tossed in the bin, Sherlock went to lie down on the narrow, lumpy bed shoved in the opposite corner. He took a few deep breaths and allowed himself to sink into depths of his Mind Palace. He stood in the situation room, staring at the huge wall where he had laid out all the details he had acquired over the last two months. As his eyes roamed over the various reports and picture, his mind began running through all the possible scenarios for the end of this mission. 

After twenty minutes, he gave up, because despite Mycroft's original estimate of six months, every single scenario he was could envision ended up with him being captured by the Russians within a week and likely dead within two. Of course, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had accounted for the rapid escalation of events in the region by the Russians. They had assumed in all of their scheming that Putin would wait for at least two weeks after the end of the Olympic Games before attempting to influence the situation in Ukraine. In actuality, it hadn’t even been a full week before Putin had started sending in troops to destabilize the peninsula. All those timelines and plans were all almost completely useless now.

Sherlock heaved another sigh and turned his attention away from his case wall. The room around him was almost empty except for the evidence related to this investigation. In order to maintain his focus, since any minor slip up could be disastrous, Sherlock had steadily removed all traces of his life in London and locked them away in a back wing. He had debated deleting all that information since it wouldn’t be at all helpful on this mission. But to his great consternation, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even though he hadn’t visited them very often since he had locked them away, Sherlock still felt empowered somehow by the strength of those memories. But now, trapped in a solitary flat in a distant corner of the world and with a disastrously short life expectancy, those memories were pulling him back in with their siren call. His feet moved almost without conscious thought through the entryway and down a long, dark hallway. At the very end stood the dark wood door adorned with the brass door knocker, pulled shut to keep all the memories he wanted to cherish inside, away from the dangers around him.

The heavy wood door was cool and smooth to the touch. Sherlock ran his fingers over the brass knocker, feeling the pull of the memories that hid behind it. He had stood here many times over the last few weeks, lingering jut on the edges of his memories. Normally at this point, he would turn away and force his attention back onto the matters at hand. But, for some unknown reason, tonight felt different. Maybe it was the sense that his end was tangibly close or the fact that he was completely alone; but whatever the cause, his defences were worn down enough that Sherlock didn’t feel like turning away. For the first time in weeks, Sherlock decided that he needed to go inside. The hinges creaked a little from disuse as he turned the door knob, but moments later, he entered the dusty entryway.

As he stood in the mental recreation of the foyer of 221 Baker Street, the flood of memories was almost overwhelming. The smells of the old building mixed with Mrs. Hudson’s baking were so vivid; Sherlock could almost believe he was back in London. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock allowed himself a moment to soak it all in. But a noise from upstairs startled Sherlock as it broke the peace and quiet. It wasn’t a noise that he could ever remember hearing in the recesses of his mind before. It was coming from upstairs and after a minute staring at the ceiling, Sherlock headed up the stairs to investigate.

Pushing open the door to the sitting room, Sherlock froze, staring at the tableau in front of him. There, on that oh-so-familiar soft, squishy armchair sat John, his back to the door and his hair glinting in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Mary was sitting on the arm of the chair, an arm stretched over John’s shoulder as they both cooed at whatever John was holding. Sherlock stumbled slightly as that noise sounded again; it sounded like a soft coo. Sherlock moved quickly into the room so he could see what they were both looking at. As he took in the group of people in front of him, the ache in his chest exploded.

John and Mary sat there, happily staring down at the baby girl cradled in John’s arms. Here it was, the whole reason he was in a cold, soon-to-be war torn country. Keeping the most important person in his life safe and happy and with his growing family was worth every sacrifice he could make. He might not have known the exact consequences of the vow he had made at the wedding during that last toast, but there was no way he could regret giving everything he could to keep them safe, even if the cost was his own life.

After a minute, Sherlock settled on the couch behind him, content to watch John interact with his child, even if it did nothing to ease the strange ache that rose in his chest. Back in London, Mary was almost to her due date. The scene in front of him was surely only a matter of days away. And as Sherlock sat back and basked in John’s happiness, he found a small part of himself wishing he could see it for real, instead of it being a figment of his imagination.

\--

The next morning, Sherlock left the flat just after dawn, squinting into the bright sunlight. He was feeling a little disgusted at himself for his lapse into sentimentality in the small hours of the night. Spending that amount of time wishing himself back home wasn’t only unproductive - it was downright dangerous in his current situation. It was why all the memories of London and John were kept behind that locked door. He couldn’t delete them; he needed them to keep him sane and focused on the end goal. But spending time wallowing in pointless wishes certainly wasn’t productive.

But he pushed all that aside for now; once again, it wasn’t the time or the place for that kind of introspection. The large crowds probably wouldn’t be out for a few hours yet and Sherlock needed to take advantage of the empty streets. First off, he needed to head down to the harbour and see what was going on at the Black Sea Fleet base.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was in the business district, walking down to the area where he could get a clear view of the harbour. As he walked through the streets of shops, there was one obvious change from yesterday morning that caught his eye. When he had arrived, there had been numerous store fronts in this area that had been decorated with Ukrainian flags and pro-Ukrainian slogans. Those were all gone now. The empty windows were especially noticeable next to the colourful Russian flags displayed proudly in other store fronts.

As the morning progressed, Sherlock saw more signs that anyone who wasn't an ethnic Russian had done more than just hide the obvious signs of their allegiance. Even yesterday morning, there had been small groups of counter protesters in the street. They had worked to avoid direct contact with the larger groups, but they had still been determined to make their voices heard. From his usual vantage point on the roof of a business complex, Sherlock couldn't see any signs of the counter protesters. The sections of the city that they had used were suspiciously empty.

There were also noticeable differences in the Pro-Russian demonstrators. While they had been growing larger and more vocal since his arrival, they were now reaching the tipping point. They were also growing more aggressive. Sherlock had witnessed several confrontations in the last hour, where splinter groups of protesters had circled and started shouting at bystanders. So far, it hadn't escalated to real violence, but Sherlock could tell it was only a matter of time. The Pro-Russian protesters were clearly feeling empowered by the events of yesterday.

Sherlock was just about to give up his position and find a different vantage point when movement on one of the side streets a few blocks away caught his eye. There was a caravan of those unmarked vehicles heading out of the city. There were six trucks close together and obviously moving as a convoy. A quick scan of the streets in the vicinity showed that there were at least three other caravans all headed in the same direction. Sherlock stared, trying to overlay the city streets with a mental map, hoping to deduce where they were headed, but it was no good. He still didn't know the layout of the city well enough to infer a destination. Making up his mind, Sherlock headed towards the nearest staircase. He needed to know where those trucks were all heading.

Three streets over, Sherlock managed to get into a hidden doorway just before the convoy arrived. Pressed against the metal door behind him and mostly shielded by shadows and pillars, Sherlock took the opportunity to study each car as it passed. One thing was immediately clear - the troops in the back of each truck were on alert this morning. There wasn’t any of the easy banter that he had overheard the other times he had managed to get close to the vehicles. Their weapons were all resting within easy arm’s reach, instead of hiding in crates on the floor of the truck.

Once the trucks had disappeared around a corner, Sherlock left his hiding place, heading towards the nearby side street where he had parked his car this morning. As he hurried through alleyways, he considered the sight he had just seen. That hadn’t been an ordinary patrol; that much had been clear from the serious demeanour on each of the soldiers he had seen. Fortunately, he arrived at his car in a matter of minutes and he set off in the direction the trucks had disappeared.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock stopped the car on the outskirts of Sevastopol, staring at the scene in front of him. It was almost too much to be believed. Obviously, the two ships he had watched unload yesterday morning hadn't been the only ones to deposit troops and equipment in the city. The trucks that he had followed out of the city had joined up with at least thirty other trucks and were now completely surrounding the airport. It didn't look like the airport had been shut down; there were still planes taking off and landing at regular intervals, but the number of armed personal was certainly startling.

\----

Hours later, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the gate to the yard behind Alexey’s shop shut behind him. It was well past closing time, but that was the only time he could meet with the other man right now. Alexey’s reluctance to be seen with him was understandable to a certain degree. It was hard to be certain of anyone’s allegiances right now. Despite the fact that Maks had vouched for him, the mechanic really had no concrete proof that Sherlock was trustworthy. Putting your faith in the wrong person at this juncture could prove to be fatal, not only for Alexey but for friends and family as well. There was simply no way to be absolutely sure of anyone’s allegiance at the moment.

The sun might be setting, but in the city streets around him, the protests were still growing by the hour. Sherlock could hear the large crowds shouting and singing from here, even though he was at least five blocks away from the main gathering points. There was no doubt about it, he thought as he lingered in an alleyway near the darkened shop; the whole of Crimea was a powder keg and Vladimir Putin kept shipping cartons of matches across the Strait. After a minute, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and headed in the direction of the protests. He needed to see how all the developments in the last twenty-four hours had affected them.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was hidden in yet another doorway, watching a large group of protesters file past him. The crowds were definitely much larger and louder tonight than they had been. If he had to guess, Sherlock would estimate that the number of people in the streets had grown by at least a third over the last two days. They were also louder and more obviously organized. Each large group sang the same songs as the other groups and they were coordinated to disrupt as much traffic in the city, even though the groups were sometimes more than a quarter of a mile apart.

As he stood in the doorway, trying to watch without being seen, Sherlock admitted to himself for the first time that he was growing seriously concerned about his own safety. The crowds were showing no signs of lessening, which meant it would be almost impossible to make his way to safety if the situation merited a swift retreat. Unfortunately, there was really nothing he could do about it right now except wait for the group to pass by.

It took nearly an hour before the crowd on the street in front of him thinned enough for Sherlock to consider leaving. As the group filed past, he had grabbed a few pictures of suspicious characters in the crowd, including who had appeared to lead the protests and the few instigators that had stood out from the crowds. But now, it was time to get out of the city centre. It certainly felt like there was a good chance tonight would be the night that violence would finally erupt.

Just as he was leaving the alcove, Sherlock glanced upwards and his heart stopped. There, on top of the building on the other side of the street, was a person who was obviously watching him. Sherlock only spared a brief glance in his direction, but it was hard to make out much detail. The man was dressed all in black and had been doing his best to blend into the rooftop behind him. But it really didn’t matter; Sherlock was in trouble.

Three steps into the street were all it took for Sherlock to feel the unmistakable presence of someone coming up fast behind him. Sherlock sped up, hoping to blend into the tail end of the large group of protesters ahead of him. As he moved, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Getting arrested with a phone that had pictures of the lead protesters would be a sure way to find himself transported back to mainland Russia immediately. He pulled the memory chip from the slot and tossed it down on the street into the feet of all the people around him. There was too much noise to hear it break, but at the very least, it would be hard to locate after enough people kicked it.

A glance out of the corner of his eye into a nearby shop window showed that there were at least two men closing in on him. They were only about fifteen feet behind him now. Sherlock surged forward, darting between two groups of people who were moving slowly in front of him, hoping to get some separation so they wouldn’t see him ditch his phone.

Fortunately, just as Sherlock was beginning to worry that he would get caught still carrying the phone, he saw a slow moving car on a side street he was passing. A few seconds was all it took to realize the car was trying to move away from the street he was on. A smile of relief crossed his face as he watched the phone skid across the pavement and stop just in front of a tire. Even above the crowd noise, Sherlock could hear the crunch of the tire breaking the case.

Now that the incriminating evidence was dealt with, Sherlock started scanning the crowd, trying to find an escape route. The men behind him were gaining ground; another glance in a store window showed that they now were only feet behind him. Suddenly, Sherlock spotted a potential escape route. About 20 feet in front of him was another side street. Maybe, just maybe, if he could make it there, he’d be able to escape. Sherlock broke into a run, darting between protesters. He heard shouts from the men behind him, but didn’t dare look around. The alleyway was just in front of him; there was at most five feet between him and his chance to escape.

Just as he reached the corner, however, Sherlock froze. All of a sudden, there were three men directly in front of him, blocking his escape route. Before he could react, before he could alter the plan, the three men were on him, wrestling him to the ground. Once he was on the ground, he felt boots slamming into his ribs. A hand closed on the back of his neck, forcing his face down into the rough, cold concrete. He tried to struggle, but he could reach any of the men gathered around him. A cold hand closed around his flailing wrists and yanked his arms up behind his back.

“You’re under arrest for instigating unrest,” he heard a deep voice growl as the metal cuffs closed around his wrists. He didn't even have the chance to say anything before the hand on his neck grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the ground. The world around him quickly went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for getting this update done quicker. The end section fought me more than I thought it would. It took a few drafts to get Sherlock's capture to feel right to me. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! All comments, corrections and feedback are welcome! 
> 
> One more author's note: up to this point, I've been trying to keep the story events in Russia & Ukraine in line with the actual events of early 2014, with the obvious exceptions of specific characters and encounters. From this point on, any similarities between events in this story and real life are purely coincidence.


	24. Chapter 24

**March 1**

Something had to have happened. The knot in Alexey's stomach grew as he stood in the shadowy alleyway behind his shop. He might not have known Sherlock Holmes for long, but he was certain that the only reason he would miss a chance to pass along information was because something had gone very badly wrong. When they had spoken yesterday afternoon, Sherlock had been insistent that Alexey meet him this morning before he opened the shop. He had been planning on watching the protests and wanted to include anything he learned in today’s report for Boris.

Alexey had been reluctant at first; the situation in town was getting worse by the day and it was downright dangerous for anyone who wasn’t fully on the Russian side of the argument. But he had given in after a few minutes of arguing; he didn’t know much about Maks’ strange friend, but whatever he was doing had to be important. Maks wouldn’t risk his friends without a lot of careful consideration. While Alexey found the Englishman to be rude and aloof, he was at least discreet and punctual, at least up until now. But, for the first time, Sherlock had failed to show, and Alexey was convinced that something had gone badly wrong last night.

He stood for another full minute in the alleyway, one hand idly rubbing at his temple in an attempt to ease the headache that was starting to throb at the base of his skull. The worry over Sherlock’s absence was being compounded by the rumours that were circling. There had been stories on the morning news broadcast of widespread arrests happening during last night’s protests. It was the first time that there had been anything more than a handful of arrests here in Sevastopol. While there had been arrests in other parts of the country, the police force here had been content to let the protesters demonstrate without interference.

Alexey glanced down at his watch yet again; it was time for him to open the shop. He couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to himself than he had been over the last week unless he wanted to risk being arrested himself. He had been skating on thin ice already by being seen talking with a stranger in town over the last week. Any more erratic behaviour on his part might be enough to put him squarely in the crosshairs of the authorities. It wasn’t even strangers that he had to worry about; several of his employees had started proudly proclaiming their support for the Pro-Russian movement. There had already been several comments made in his hearing that they considered it suspicious that Sherlock had started showing up just as the situation had started to escalate.

Fortunately, once Alexey had opened the shop and his employees had arrived, the morning passed by without incident. While the streets were packed with protesters every night, the mornings had remained fairly calm. But every time there was movement on the street outside the window, Alexey would look up to see what who was passing by. He kept hoping that this time, he would see Sherlock on the pavement, standing on the other side of the glass and looking impatient as he always did. But every time, his stomach dropped a little lower when he failed to recognize the person passing the shop.

As the clock ticked closer to the time Boris usually arrived, Alexey began debating what he should tell him. Should he tell Boris that Sherlock had failed to show? He knew the other man would immediately report it back to Maks, who undoubtedly had instructions on what to do in these circumstances. But what if he sounded the alarm, only for the Sherlock to show up this afternoon? Would it be better to raise a false alarm or should he wait another day just to be safe?

After a lot of debate, Alexey decided that he should just be patient. With the near constant upheaval in the city, it was just as likely that Sherlock had found something new to investigate as it was that he had been arrested. Several times, he had mentioned that new developments had forced him to change his plans. But just as he was beginning to relax, the conversation between two of his mechanic about the protests last night broke into his train of thought.

"The police made some arrests near where I was last night," his youngest mechanic, Grigory, was saying. He was in his upper twenties, a political ideologue and staunchly Pro-Russian; he was the employee who had grown the most vocal over the last few days. "About time they started to round up the people standing in our way."

The other mechanic, an older man named Iosif, just grunted in return. Alexey had never been able to get a handle on his political leanings. While he didn’t hire or fire people based on their political viewpoints, he was relieved that most of his people, Iosif included, were trying to keep their personal opinions out of the workplace. It just made life easier in the shop that way.

"What?" Grigory demanded, obviously catching sight of the sceptical look that Iosif had tried to hide. "You don't think they should arrest the people causing problems?"

"That's not who they were arresting last night," came the low reply. "I saw a whole bunch of people arrested who weren’t doing anything other than watching a group go by. My brother and his best friend were among them."

"You sure he wasn’t causing problems?" Grigory demanded, obviously suspicious of the other man's story.

"I was right there next to him and no one was causing a disruption. We had just left the restaurant and stopped to let a group of the protesters go by. As we waited, a whole group of police and security men came up behind us. My brother and his best friend were the only two arrested; the rest of us were just given warnings. When we went to bail my brother out early this morning, both he and his friend were pretty badly beaten up. We had to take my brother to A&E for bruised ribs."

Whatever Grigory's reply was, it was too low for Alexey to hear. As Alexey watched in the reflection of the shop window, they stood there for a few minutes more, keeping the talking to a minimum, before Grigory turned away and headed back towards the workshop. As he watched, Alexey saw Iosif take a deep breath and turn hesitantly in his direction. After what looked like a moment’s painful indecision, the other man headed in his direction.

“You heard that?” Iosif asked hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Alexey figured there was no point in lying. “I hope your brother isn’t hurt too badly.” Iosif just grunted, obviously still debating about something that was bothering him. After watching him stew, Alexey started frowning, wondering why the other man was so nervous. “Is something else wrong?” he asked tentatively.

“I thought I saw someone else at the police station nearly this morning,” Iosif eventually admitted while making an obvious effort to keep his words from traveling anywhere else in the store. He swallowed visibly, looking extremely nervous to Alexey. “I didn’t get a good look – there were a lot of people being held in the jail – but I thought I recognized someone else in the crowd.” Alexey’s stomach dropped; he had an inkling of where this story was going; there was really only one person who would make Iosif look that uncomfortable. If he had seen another employee in custody, he would have volunteered that information right away. Alexey leaned over the countertop, motioning for the other man to lean closer. He took a deep breath, trying to find a way to put his fears into words.

“You thought you saw Sherlock this morning, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, even though it wasn’t really a question. The other man’s head jerked upright in surprise; Alexey thought he saw a trickle of relief in the other man’s eyes before he jerked his head in a slight nod. As his worst fears crystalized in front of him, Alexey forced his mind to work as quickly as possible. He needed to let Boris know what had happened. He wished he could call Maks directly, but he had been told it was too risky; there was no way to make sure that the line would be secure. 

After considering his options, Alexey decided the fastest way to pass on the information would be to meet Boris down at the docks. He asked Iosif to watch the shop for him and, after grabbing the motorized fishing reel he had been repairing for Boris and the report that Sherlock had dropped off last night, he left the shop. As he walked through the streets, he tried to hide the nerves that were tying his stomach in knots; he couldn’t afford to draw the attention of any authorities that were out this morning. 

It took him less than five minutes to make it down to the sea front. Luckily, the protesters were either at their jobs or still in their beds. There were still traces of last night’s protests scattered around; bins that had been tipped into the streets hadn’t been cleaned up and discarded signs littering the sidewalks. They were fortunate that the city had managed to so far avoid the significant damage that other cities had sustained over the last few months. Leaning against a light post near the water’s edge, he took a minute to watch the activity in the harbour, sighing in relief as he saw the familiar sight of Boris’ fishing boat making its way through the busy waterway. He noticed that there were also at least three military ships headed towards the naval base, which was certainly higher than usual. One of the ships was even openly carrying Russian insignia, which had to be a sign of just how much had changed over the last week.

Alexey waited near the base of the pier as he waited for Boris to dock. He kept glancing around, hoping that no one was watching him that closely. Of course, he wasn’t exactly an unknown figure down here. He worked with most of the fishermen at one point or another. But he still spent more time looking over his shoulder than watching the boat, almost convinced he would see a policeman standing over his shoulder. Finally, more than five minutes later, Boris finished docking and Alexey hurried up the wooden pier in his direction. Boris caught sight of him, and waved hello, but he didn’t quite manage to contain the frown that blossomed over his face.

"Thought I'd save you a trip, since I had some running around to do," he called in greeting as he stepped onto the boat deck. “I finished fixing your reel motor this morning” he continued as Boris stepped out of the cabin. They made small talk about the weather and fishing conditions for a moment while both carefully surveying the surrounding area. The dock master stopped by for a word, but fortunately moved onto another boat fairly quickly. Boris motioned them into the boat cabin, in an effort to keep other people from listening in.

"I think Sherlock was arrested last night,” he said quickly, pulling the envelope containing Sherlock’s last report and the bill for the motor repair out of his pocket. “He left one report last night and said he’d be by this morning with another one,” he relayed as he handed the envelope over. “But he never showed this morning and one of my mechanics thinks he saw him in custody this morning when he was bailing out his brother.” 

The other man’s face began to mirror the worried expression that Alexey knew was on his own face. Boris was silent for a minute and Alexey knew he was trying to think of something that might make this all a big misunderstanding. But after a minute, Boris looked back at him and Alexey saw a shadow of hopelessness clouding his eyes. 

“If Sherlock didn’t show this morning,” Boris said slowly, his tension increasing the weather-beaten rasp of his voice, “we have to assume your mechanic was right about seeing him in the jail. I’m heading straight from here to Odessa to let Maks know.” Alexey nodded, trying desperately to think of a plan to help. He might have butted heads with the Englishman several times since his arrival, but sitting back and letting events play out just didn’t feel right. Just before he was about to give up, however, an idea finally occurred to him.

“I’m going to head towards the police station,” he said slowly, still trying to figure out how involved he should become in this mess. “Let Maks know I’m going to try to see what’s happening. Tell him to call me tonight. My mobile number is on the invoice in case he needs it.”

“Be careful, friend.” Boris said while he nodded in agreement. “Having both of you arrested isn’t going to help anything.” Alexey agreed and shook Boris’ hand before setting off back down the pier. He stopped at the base and waved as the boat started to make its slow way back to the mouth of the harbour. Before the boat reached the break wall, however, Alexey had turned and headed towards the city centre to see if he could discover anything that would be useful.

\----

As soon as the voicemail greeting started, Maks pressed the disconnect button on his phone and stared down at the screen, trying to control his panic. It had been at least six hours since he had met Boris at the dockyard. Since he had gotten the news of Sherlock’s apparent arrest, he had started contacting everyone that he could think of who might be of help. He didn’t have anyone he trusted implicitly in Crimea itself, but he had alerted several of his contacts in the Ukrainian intelligence community and sent coded messages to the few trusted contacts he had that were connected to the Russian secret police. It wasn’t much, but at least he felt like he was doing something.

Sitting on the table in front of him, the white rectangle almost glowing against the dingy table, was the card with Mycroft Holmes’ phone number on it. He hadn’t called yet. He knew that any delay could be absolutely critical to Sherlock’s survival and part of him was feeling slightly guilty about waiting. But accuracy was even more important than speed. He wanted to talk with Alexey and hear if he had discovered anything else before he contacted Mycroft.

He had tried to call twice now and his friend hadn’t answered either time. Glancing at the clock, Maks couldn’t stop his frown from growing deeper. Alexey should have closed his shop more than two hours ago. What if he had been arrested too? As much as it hurt him, Maks knew he couldn’t do anything to get his friend out of jail. Sherlock was one thing; using government resources to release an ordinary citizen was entirely different. 

Maks took a deep breath, trying to fight down his growing sense of panic. There were several, perfectly natural reasons that Alexey wasn’t answering his phone. He could be stuck in his shop, working late with too many people around to answer his phone. The streets were also packed with protesters again tonight, if the images on the muted TV in the corner were accurate, and Alexey could also be having trouble getting home. Another deep breath calmed a few more of his nerves. He would give Alexey another fifteen minutes before he tried one final time. If his friend didn’t pick up, he would just make the call to Mycroft with what he already knew.

Maks paced around his flat while he waited, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the images on the television screen. The local news was showing footage of tonight’s protests and Maks found himself scanning the faces of the people in the crowd, as if he was honestly hoping to spot Sherlock. Even if he didn’t suspect that Sherlock was in jail, it would be a miracle to see him on the news. Sherlock was there to observe the protests, not lead them. He was smart enough to evade news crews since any attention on him would only increase his danger. 

It felt like hours had passed instead of minutes, but the clock finally indicated that the fifteen minute window had elapsed. Maks lunged for his mobile where it rested on the dining table. His hand was shaking so badly that he could barely dial the number; Maks was a bit appalled at his lack of emotional detachment. Alexey had been his friend for a long time and he would hate if something happened to him since Maks had put him up to this mission. The call rang twice with no sign of an answer, which had Maks closing his eyes in resignation when the click of a connection made him stumble into his seat.

“This is Alexey,” the voice of his friend sounded from the speaker, slightly distorted by static on the line. 

“Alexey, it’s Maks,” he said, relief making his own voice tremble. “It’s good to speak to you. I was starting to get seriously worried.”

“Sorry, the crowds on the streets are impossible. It took me ages to work my way around them.”

“Did you find anything?” Maks hated cutting straight to the point, but there really wasn’t time for a nice long chat. He promised himself he would stop and see his friend in person if they lived through this. 

“I bumped into a policeman I’ve known for years at the café near the station,” Alexey replied, and Maks thought he could hear him choosing his words extremely carefully. “He mentioned that they still had a couple of suspicious characters in custody from last night. One in particular stuck in his mind: no one recognized him, he had barely spoken a word to anyone, and had given them what they were fairly sure were fake papers and a fake name.” 

“That has to be him,” Maks commented, trying to think hard around the huge knot that had settled in his stomach. “We didn’t have time to establish a solid cover story.”

“I figured that’s who it must be. I asked what they would do with him and he said that they had reported him to the ‘higher ups’, whoever that is. He made an offhand comment about someone coming out in a few days for an interrogation.” The knot loosened slightly in Maks stomach at the idea that they might have a few days before Sherlock’s true identity might be exposed.

“I couldn’t get any more information without raising his suspicions,” he admitted, sounding vaguely apologetic.

“Don’t poke around too much,” Maks warned, his earlier worries coming back to the forefront. “Don’t do anything that could cause you problems.” He hesitated a moment, but forced himself to be brutally honest with his friend. “If you are arrested, there isn’t much I can do for you.” He heard Alexey sigh at that bald statement.

“Don’t worry. I’m not looking to join up. I’ll see if I can keep my ears open, but that’s all I can really do.”

“Thanks, friend,” Maks replied, relieved that his friend was taking his warning seriously. “Boris will still be making the rounds every day. Let him know if you learn anything and I will get in touch.” After the call ended, Maks stared at his mobile screen for a minute, turning over the new information in his head. The mystery man in the jail had to be Sherlock. It was definitely time to raise the alarm.

After one more deep breath, he picked up the card from the table and dialled the number. It rang only once before a female voice answered. It made Maks pause for a second as he grew concerned that he had dialled the number wrong. 

“What is your message for Mr. Holmes?” the calm, almost cold voice answered, sounding bored. The image of an ultra-efficient assistant sprang in Maks’ mind. He didn’t know why he was so surprised that the number hadn’t run straight to Mycroft Holmes himself. The connection could never be that direct for security reasons.

“What is your message for Mr. Holmes?” the voice repeated, and Maks started, realizing he had been silent for long enough to raise suspicions. He took a deep breath and blurted out his message, one he hoped that communicated the urgency of the situation without compromising its sensitive nature.

“This is Maksim Lysenko. Orange smoke has been seen over the Strait of Kerch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long to get here! After a winter bellyaching about the weather, I'm now tired of all the yardwork that Spring brings with it. Apparently I'm never happy.
> 
> Let me know what you think - all comments/feedback/corrections are welcome! The bit about the orange smoke is apparently one of the officially-sanctioned maritime distress codes, according to the ever-reliable wikipedia. (Looking up duress codes and the like led me to some seriously scary parts of the internet...) I wanted a code that Mycroft might recognize but was obscure enough that most people wouldn't know what it meant. Also, sine Maks' grandfather was a fisherman, it seems reasonable that he would be familiar with maritime signals.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

**March 1**

Mycroft Holmes had to bite back a groan of frustration after a discreet glance down at the agenda in front of him. Normally, the weekly Cabinet Security Briefing was the one of the few meetings that was guaranteed to hold his attention. Unfortunately, this one was turning out to be the exception that proved the rule. Of the seventeen topics that were up for discussion, the first item had been the only one that held any interest for him. Unfortunately, the conversation about the ongoing crisis between Russia and Ukraine had been almost entirely superficial. Everything discussed had been covered in much greater depth in the numerous intelligence reports that had crossed his desk in the last week. While the current discussion about the possibility for instability in the Asian financial markets droned on, Mycroft found himself dwelling unsurprisingly on the latest developments in the Crimean crisis.

To say that the reports out of the peninsula were troubling would be a gross understatement. Over the last two days, the situation had regressed to the point that calling it chaotic would be insufficiently descriptive. There were no clear indications of who was in charge on the peninsula; the Parliament's vote to severe ties with Kiev, while highly popular with the ethnic Russian population, was built on extremely shaky legal principles. The British government had condemned the move, but at this point, it was largely a symbolic gesture. While the international community had not recognized the vote, it hadn't stopped Putin from increasing the inflammatory rhetoric, which was, in turn, encouraging the local leadership in Crimea.

A slight vibration from his pocket drew Mycroft's focus back to the situation at hand, where one of his colleagues was droning on about long-term financial viability. He frowned as he tried to discreetly pull out his phone. He frowned as he noticed several of his colleagues glance in his direction. While most of the attendees received messages and updates from their subordinates throughout these meetings, it was extremely rare that he received any sort of notification. Mycroft prided himself on never needing periodic check-ins from his subordinates. His agents and aides were all sufficiently trained to handle everything short of an imminent nuclear attack without his direct oversight.

In fact, there were precisely three current scenarios that would cause Anthea to contact him during any meeting. Unfortunately, all of them required significantly more attention than he could give it while sitting in this meeting and only an incoming nuclear missile would give him just cause to leave. Under the cover of the desk, Mycroft frowned as he glanced down at the screen. As he read the message, his stomach clenched and tentacles of panic began to spread through his insides.

_Orange smoke is burning over Crimea._

Mycroft sank back in his chair, the report on the Asian markets disappearing from his consciousness entirely. He recognized the old maritime distress signal, naturally, and while there was no further context to the message, Mycroft recognized the originator instantly. A coded distress message from Maks Lysenko could only mean one thing: Sherlock must have been captured. For the first time in the history of his diplomatic career, Mycroft felt an almost undeniable urge to leave a meeting in progress, regardless of the consequences. Fortunately for him, a fraction of his traditional rationality remained to ground him. He is going to need the cooperation of many of these people in the next few days if he was going to execute a rescue mission. He couldn't risk alienating them by exhibiting atypical behaviour.

Mycroft allowed himself one more moment of panic before he bottled it all up. As he cleared his head of the emotional fog, a slight shift in the seat next to him caught his attention. As was their custom, Lady Smallwood was seated to his left. While she was also outwardly focused on the brewing market crisis, Mycroft could tell she was actually more interested in his behaviour than anything else at the moment. After a quick glance ensured that almost everyone else's attention was back on the speaker, Mycroft tilted his notepad slightly towards her and jotted a quick note on the corner.

_The Peregrine has been caged._

A brief jerk of her head was the only outward sign she gave before they both refocused on the meeting. Sherlock's arrest was not a shock, after all; they had known that it was only a matter of time before he was captured, given the chaotic nature on the peninsula. Mycroft had become convinced over the last month that his original timeline of a six-month mission was growing more unlikely, but he had still hoped that Sherlock's luck would hold just a bit longer, while he worked behind the scenes. He hadn't been able to construct a completely infallible plan to rescue his brother.

There was nothing he could at this exact moment, however galling he found inaction. All he could was wait to see what information Anthea could gather by the time the meeting ended.

\---

The remainder of the intelligence briefing was a torturous experience. For what felt like the first time in his professional life, Mycroft struggled to keep his attention focused on what was happening in the room. If he was questioned at the conclusion of the meeting, he doubted he could give more than an extremely brief summary of any of the items on the agenda. Mycroft allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief as the minister in charge finally brought the meeting to a close. A quick glance down at his watch confirmed what the sky outside the meeting room hinted at; it had been at least an hour and a half since he had received the message from Anthea. He could only hope that this wasted time wouldn’t turn out to be the difference between rescuing Sherlock and failing.

As the other attendees hurried to pack up their belongings and start their evening plans, Mycroft stayed in his chair, waiting for the scrum to clear before he moved. It must be nice, he considered whimsically as he squelched the urge to shove his way to the front of queue, to have the liberty to focus on such commonplace agendas as dinner reservations or theatre tickets. In a rare moment of introspective folly, Mycroft found himself envying the simplicity of their lives. But the feeling of Lady Smallwood’s hand on his arm was enough to break him out of that short and uncharacteristic fit of melancholy. He caught a faint whiff of that ironically familiar perfume as he leaned his head in her direction.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked while giving him a piercing glare. Mycroft bit back a sigh and looked down at the table in frustration, hating the only answer he had at the moment.

"Not yet." Lady Smallwood gave him another sharp look, but nodded after a minute.

“How long do you think you will need?” A quick glance around showed that they were the last two in the room, so Mycroft reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to dispel some of the tension that was clogging his head.

“There are numerous possibilities, but until I’ve examined all the specifics, I won’t know which is best. I’d speculate at least a couple of hours,“ he admitted as his shoulders jerked in a miniscule shrug. He had spent weeks now working on contingency plans for just this occurrence and it was highly frustrating that he didn’t have anything remotely finalized when he needed it.

“That’s good for me, actually.” Lady Smallwood admitted with a slightly sheepish look. “I’m busy tonight, but my first appointment tomorrow morning isn’t until 9:30. Do you think that will give you enough time?"

“Most likely,” Mycroft admitted, not willing to verbalize his fear that he won’t be able to construct a convincing argument for Sherlock’s extraction. “Will you meet me at the Diogenes Club at seven?”

A smart nod of her blonde head was the only acknowledgement that she gave before standing up. Mycroft remained seated, giving himself another moment to collect his thoughts and hide his inner turmoil. If he showed any of the panic and fear he was currently grappling with, it might affect his ability to win allies once he had a solid plan in mind. Only once he was sure his typical mask was firmly in place did he leave his seat and head for the door.

As soon as he exited the conference room, Mycroft glanced up and down the hallway, completely unsurprised to see Anthea standing just a few steps from the conference room. She was leaning against the wall, the picture of elegant boredom, holding what looked like two dossiers in one hand and the ever-present mobile in the other. As soon as he drew level with her, she snapped to attention, falling into step next to him and handing over the folders. The stiff envelopes felt like they were burning his fingertips; he was itching to tear them open and devour the information they contained. Fortunately, the iron bands of his restraint held firm; the information in those files weren't things he should be reading in public.

It took but a few minutes to reach his offices, the quiet of the mostly deserted corridors soothing the edges of his frayed nerves. As they walked, Mycroft informed Anthea of the change in tomorrow’s schedule and in her typical, efficient style, she had everything adjusted in his diary by the time they reached the doorway. Without another word, he left her at her desk and headed back into his office. It was time to begin forging the plan to bring his brother home.

\---

The hours of the night flew by and by the time the dawn light started to show over the city horizon, Mycroft was putting the finishing touches on his plans. Sometime in the middle of the night, he had moved from his office over to the Diogenes Club. The guarantee of solitude inside the club had given him the time to finally pull the disparate threads of the situation into a clear plan of action. Now, as he waited for Lady Smallwood’s arrival, he could look back on the night’s events with a little emotional detachment.

The first folder Anthea had presented him with had contained the little information available concerning Sherlock's arrest. One of Maks Lysenko's contacts reported that one of his employees had seen someone who resembled Sherlock in a holding cell in the Sevastopol police station in the early hours of yesterday morning. The employee hadn’t been one hundred percent certain, of course; the holding cells had been full of the people who had been rounded up in the protests and he had only seen Sherlock a handful of times in the week since his arrival on the peninsula.

To Mycroft’s chagrin, the lack of direct confirmation of the chain of events was only the first major hurdle facing him. Neither Anthea nor any of his other agents had been able to unearth any official paperwork concerning any of the protesters arrested that night. Mycroft wished he could say that was surprising, but the Russians had a history of arresting anyone deemed vaguely suspicious and worrying about the legalities of it all at a much later date.

The night that Sherlock had been arrested had been the most volatile to date on the peninsula. There were unconfirmed reports of hundreds of arrests in Sevastopol alone on the night of February 28. Lysenko’s contact had reported that most of those arrested had been released by the next morning, but no one had seen any sign of Sherlock since earlier that day. Mycroft supposed that was comforting; if Sherlock had just been picked up in a sweep at a protest, the local police might not know exactly whom they had caught. It was a safer than being recognized as an undercover agent. It wasn’t much of a comfort, of course, but it had eased Mycroft’s panic slightly nonetheless.

While the information in the first dossier had been mostly expected, the contents of the second had surprised Mycroft. In the adrenaline rush of Sherlock’s disappearance, he had forgotten the ongoing investigations into Jim Moriarty’s apparent suicide and the television broadcast interruption two weeks ago. This folder had contained the final report from those investigations, and its arrival had been the stroke of luck that Mycroft needed to close all the gaps and complete the plan to set Sherlock’s rescue in motion.

Beyond any reasonable doubt, the body in the government morgue was not James Moriarty's. The report hadn't contained any speculation into how the man had faked his suicide. The DNA testing had merely confirmed that the body on the rooftop was from someone related to Moriarty but not the man himself. But those facts were really only of secondary importance; the key information was that they now had confirmation that James Moriarty was indeed alive and apparently planning to re-establish himself in the country. The final information on the television hacking and graffiti investigations had also been included, and everything tied together, almost too neatly, if Mycroft was honest. However, this was the leverage he had been desperately searching for; just this once, he was prepared to accept the facts at face value. 

A knock on the door brought Mycroft back to the current surroundings. At his bidding, the door opened, revealing not only the arrival of Lady Smallwood, but also a steward bearing a breakfast tray. Mycroft was glad the club had thought to include more substantial offerings than just biscuits with the tray; while he might be freshly showered thanks to their excellent facilities, he had not stopped to eat since before the intelligence briefing last night.

"Thank you for coming," he greeted her as the steward left the room. Once they had settled down on the sofas, Lady Smallwood set her teacup down on the low table and fixed him with a penetrating stare. While she wasn't nearly as perceptive as either Sherlock or himself, she did possess moderate observation skills. No doubt she had at least inferred that he had spent all night working.

"So what have you learned?"

"Reports out of Russia are as vague as usual," he began, resting his teacup on the table as well. "We have second hand reports of Sherlock being seen in the city jail in Sevastopol, but not direct confirmation. A search of the police database has turned up no information on any of the people who have been detained in the last few days."

"Do you trust the information?" she asked, shifting slightly in her seat.

"It seems plausible that they are correct. None of his contacts have seen Sherlock since the afternoon of February 28. Sherlock may have many infuriating traits, but missing check-ins on a mission like this is not like him." Mycroft paused here, noticing that Lady Smallwood was looking even more uncomfortable as he went along.

"I know I said I would help you in this, Mycroft," she began, obviously choosing her words carefully, "but the mere fact that Sherlock's been arrested doesn't really change his mission. It's not an unexpected development, after all, and for all your schemes and manoeuvrings, both you and your brother agreed to this, with full knowledge of the expected outcome."

"I agree with you," Mycroft admitted quietly. "As much as Sherlock's arrest pains me, I admit that this development alone is insufficient to merit a change in his ... status, for lack of a better word."

"So what is your plan?" she asked baldly. 

"While Sherlock's status has not changed, we do have information that threatens the security of the nation. We have uncovered evidence that James Moriarty isn't quite as dead as we would have hoped."

"Moriarty?" Lady Smallwood asked, looking mildly surprised by the mention of that name. "The criminal who was found innocent of stealing the crown jewels?"

"The very same," Mycroft confirmed. The urge to pace as he laid out his plan was overwhelming. Ignoring the slight stiffness in his knees that came from a sleepless night spent sitting at a desk, Mycroft rose from the cream sofa and headed towards the window while he continued. 

"I'm sure you are aware of the television broadcast interruption that occurred two weeks ago," he began, pausing slightly at Elizabeth's murmur of agreement. "I have had people investigating where the footage of Moriarty originated from and the veracity of his image in the broadcast, as well as establishing the identity of the body that we recovered from Bart's rooftop the day of Sherlock's faked suicide. I received the final reports on those investigations last night after the intelligence briefing."

Leaning against the window frame, Mycroft began speaking quickly, outlining all the various investigations that led him to the conclusion that the suicide had somehow been faked and his belief that the graffiti and the television broadcast cemented his belief that they would shortly see the grand return of the many who stylized himself a Consulting Criminal. It took fifteen minutes to fully lay out the case that he was sure would be strong enough to convince people that England needed it's resident dragon-slayer in the country, not rotting in a Russian jail cell.

Silence finally fell in the room when he was finished. He handed over copies of the various reports and then sank back down onto the couch opposite. Tension was strangling his stomach; the moment of truth was at hand. This was what the last eight weeks had been building towards. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lady Smallwood looked up from the papers and met his eyes.

"I think this will be enough," she said quietly, and Mycroft nearly sagged under the weight of his relief. "It will be more effective if I was the one to present this information to our colleagues. Otherwise, people will wonder if you influenced the findings for your own ends." Mycroft nodded, pleased that she was volunteering to take the lead on this most delicate point in the proceedings. His time would be better spent working behind the scenes rather than smooth-talking his colleagues. 

"It will take a couple of days to get this information in front of the people who need to see it," Lady Smallwood cautioned as she rose from her seat and gathered her coat. "I know time is of the essence right now, but I will urge you to be patient. I will be in touch by the end of the week."

Making a sound of vague agreement, Mycroft shook her hand and watched as she exited the small parlour. He knew it would take time to bring everyone around to their point of view. He was not planning on sitting idly by, however. He now had a rescue mission to plan. Despite his apparent agreement, Mycroft had no intention of waiting for others to handle the details.

Mycroft fully intended on traveling to Ukraine to pull Sherlock out himself, with or without approval. If necessary, they could seek forgiveness once his brother was safely out of the Russians’ hands. With a renewed sense of determination, Mycroft headed out of the club, messaging Anthea to have her cancel all his appointments for the morning. Before he went any further, he really needed to speak with a certain former army doctor. He had a feeling he would need John Watson’s assistance in this most dangerous mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - sorry this chapter took so long to get to you. I lost a week thanks to a trip out to see my brother near San Francisco, which was great fun but meant there wasn't much time for writing. Hopefully, once I finish up the spring yardwork marathon in the next couple of weeks, I'll have more time once the heat chases me indoors.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think. This chapter was a bit of a bear, since it was mostly talking and political machinations.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: violence and strong language. Nothing too graphic yet, but this is the chapter where the you-know-what starts to hit the fan.

**March 2**

The sound of approaching footsteps was almost completely covered by the background din of the prison. Over the thirty-seven hours that he had been in custody, Sherlock would wager that there had been a grand total of five minutes of complete silence. The banging of heavy metal doors, the shouting of the guards and the noises from his fellow prisoners echoing up and down the corridors had left Sherlock with his nerves on edge and a constant ache at his temples. His mind longed to sink inwards, so he could spend an hour or so in his Mind Palace while his brain sorted itself out, but he knew he just couldn't risk it. There was no telling when the guard would come back for him. Being labelled uncooperative would definitely be a detriment to his safety, so he couldn't afford to shut himself completely inside his head, as much as he might want to.

The noise and stress only compounded the physical ailments that had plagued him over the last day and a half. The blow that had knocked him out on the pavement had most likely given him a concussion that was still making him feel sluggish. Ever since he had regained consciousness, he had been troubled by a dull, throbbing headache that lingered behind his eyes and numerous muscles aches from the impact with the concrete and the man-handling of the guards. 

All of these physical complaints were compounded by the hideously thin and ill-fitting tracksuit he had been given to wear. He never thought he would find himself missing the stiff denim trousers and rough jumpers he had been wearing since his arrival in Russia, but they were leaps and bounds more comfortable than the itchy undergarments and draft-susceptible athletic gear the prison had supplied. It seemed inconsequential next to the ache in his head and the certainty that he was running out of time, but Sherlock really wished he could have his old suits and Belstaff back now. At least then he would feel more like his true self as he faced this last portion of the mission.

“Get over here, now. There’s someone to see you.”

The rattle of the cell door followed these brusque words. Sherlock stopped his contemplation of the stained, grey ceiling and tilted his head to see who was standing outside his cell door. The officer on the other side of the bars was huge – at least six and a half feet tall and built like a rugby player. He frowned a little when he didn’t recognize the man. He had made a point of memorizing the appearance of every guard and policeman he had seen during his stay so far, mostly as a way to stave off boredom. Of course, it wasn't that unlikely that there were guards he hadn't seen yet, but still, the sight of a new face increased Sherlock’s sense of unease.

As he pulled himself off the extremely uncomfortable metal cot in the cell, the officer outside pulled the door open. Stepping into the hallway, Sherlock was unsurprised to see a second, equally large officer lingering just beyond the first. He grunted softly as the first guard grabbed his arms to slap handcuffs around his wrists. They were cinched too tightly, grinding slightly into the too prominent bones, but he knew complaining wouldn’t do anything. He had seen repeated incidents of guards increasing a prisoner’s discomforts if they had dared to voice a complaint.

The guards pushed him forward, guiding him down the long, narrow hallway that was lined with the doors to the other cells. This wasn’t a particularly large jail; there were less than a dozen cells in this hallway. They were all full with people who had been arrested during the protests just like he had been. Of course, normally this jail housed no one more dangerous than a drunk sleeping off a night’s over indulgence. A grin chased across his face as he remembered sleeping in a holding cell at the Yard during John’s somewhat disastrous stag night. He didn’t remember many of the details from that night, but the absolutely shit-eating grin on Lestrade’s face as he had escorted them out lingered in his memory.

He was shuffled into one of the interrogation rooms inside the main area of the station. It was identical to the one he had been initially questioned after his arrest. Sherlock grunted softly as he was roughly shoved into a folding chair on this side of the desk. One of the guards awkwardly wrenched his arms around the back of the chair and secured the metal handcuffs to the chair back with a plastic zip tie. Without saying anything to him at all, the two guards then left the room, pulling the door shut with yet another slam. A quick glance around didn’t give him much information; there was a scarred metal desk just in front of him, with a beat up office chair behind it, no artwork on the walls and the one window was completely covered by blinds. There wasn’t even a clock anywhere in the room. But for the first time in a day and a half, he wasn't being subjected to constant noise. Sherlock sighed and shifted in his chair as he let his body relax for a moment.

His peace was short-lived, unfortunately. Less than five minutes later, the door opened again. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and watched as the sergeant who originally questioned him entered the room, several folders clasped in one of his hands and a coffee mug in the other. He looked almost as tired as he had the last time they had at across a desk from each other. After a minute shuffling the contents of the folders and taking a sip of his coffee, the sergeant finally made eye contact.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly, fixing Sherlock with a determined stare.

"Nicolas Smirnov," Sherlock replied yet again, somewhat amused that they were right back where they had left off.

"Who are you really?" the sergeant repeated, a resigned look spreading across his face.

"I told you, my name is Nicolas Smirnov," Sherlock repeated, fixing an innocent look on his face. The other man sighed, flicking open the top folder.

"No, you aren't. Want to try again?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, doing his best to sound politely confused instead of defensive. “Why would you say something like that? Why would I lie?”

"Well," came the slow and drawn-out reply, "according to our records, there was indeed a boy named Nicolas Smirnov born in Odessa in 1981, but he died a few days after his second birthday." Sherlock stared back, trying not to look like he was thinking fast. Whoever established this identity was obviously a fool.

"There has obviously been a mix up, then," he replied in an offended voice.

"Yes, there has been," interrupted the sergeant. "Now, would like you like cut the bullshit and tell us who you really are?"

"But I’m telling you the truth!” Sherlock responded, allowing a little anger creep into his voice. “My name is Nicolas Smirnov. Why would I lie about that? It’s not my fault I have the same name as a baby who died! I didn’t kill him.”

The officer just looked at him for a minute, letting the tense silence draw out. Sherlock recognized the tactic, of course. They were waiting for him to break. They were expecting him to look guilty, shifting in his seat and avoiding eye contact, so he forced himself to sit completely still and keeping his best innocent look on his face as he watched the sergeant.

“Well, if you aren’t going to tell us who you really are,” the sergeant said finally, after several minutes of tense silence, “you really leave me no choice. You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble, whoever-you-are, if you had just been honest.”

“But, I have been!” Sherlock protested. Privately, he was enjoying the increasing flush in the other man’s cheeks. It reminded him of Lestrade’s reaction every time he was particularly difficult at a crime scene. Just as the man opened his mouth to continue berating him, though, a knock on the door interrupted him. Sherlock frowned as the door opened and another man walked in. The newcomer had a different air about him than everyone else he had encountered in the police station so far.

Of course, the first clue that something was different was his lack of a uniform, police or otherwise. He wore civilian clothes, an unremarkable but respectable dark leather coat and black trousers. The only thing that gave any hints of his background was the boots on his feet; they were similar to the ones John had from his Army days. Of course, combat boots weren't an infallible sign of military duty, but there were other clues that the newcomer had some sort of military background. He held himself a lot like John did when he was stressed, years of military training seeping through the cracks of an otherwise unremarkable facade.

The stranger's eyes, though, were what held Sherlock's attention. There was no life behind them; for all the emotion in their pale green depths, the man could just as easily have been a robot. In a way, they were similar to the blankness that he had seen in Magnussen's eyes all those months ago. But while the blackmailer's eyes had hinted at his calculating and mercenary nature, these eyes showed nothing so refined. Instead, they told a story of brutality. As he stared at those emotionless orbs, a shiver ran up Sherlock's spine that he struggled to hide. Judging by the smirk that crossed the newcomer's face, however, he hadn't been entirely successful.

"We might not know your real identity," the sergeant remarked with a matching smirk, "but we do know that you aren't Nicolas Smirnov, and you are almost certainly not a Ukrainian citizen. So we asked for help."

"Help?" Sherlock asked. His mind raced - if the newcomer was indeed Russian secret police, like he suspected, that would go a long way towards confirming just who was in charge on the peninsula.

"I’ll leave you too alone to discuss your situation," was the sergeant’s only response as he walked out of the room. Silence fell over the room as Sherlock and the stranger sized each other up. Sherlock just sat in the chair, waiting for the newcomer to begin the next stage of the proceedings. 

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” the other man said finally, speaking in the gravelly voice that always accompanied a chain smoker. “You aren’t Nicolas Smirnov. We know that. You know that. So if you want to make things easier on yourself, you’ll stop pussyfooting around and tell us what we want to know.”

“But..” Sherlock began, injecting a bewildered note into his voice. But he didn’t get any further. The agent growled threatening and Sherlock tried to move his chair back from the desk. Before he knew what was happening, the man wrenched his chair around, almost causing Sherlock to tip over. While he was fighting to keep his balance, the man’s rock-like fist slammed into his stomach, making him gasp.

“I warned you,” came the growled threat right up against his ear. “Now, you’ll pay the consequences – and then you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

The next ten minutes were nothing but a blur of pain for Sherlock. Time after time, that fist made contact with his body. The blows were centred on his stomach and ribcage, which made breathing difficult after the first few blows. After a particularly painful blow, one that fell right on the same spot that two or three others had landed, the officer finally moved a few steps away from his chair and leaned up against the desk. Sherlock’s ribs protested and his body tried to curl in on itself, seeking protection from further blows. But since his arms were secured to the chair behind him, the only thing the movement ended up accomplishing was increasing the strain on his shoulders. 

He pulled in several shallow breaths in rapid succession trying to marshal the pain. He knew the Russian intelligence officer standing over him was waiting for him to buckle under the pain and tell them what they want to know. But to his chagrin, a soft moan escaped his lips. It was matched almost instantly by a dark chuckle from above him. Sherlock let his eyes drift closed for a moment, shutting everything out while he fought to master the pain.

He allowed himself only a few seconds in the dark, however. As soon as he possibly could, Sherlock forced his eyes back open and straightened his posture so he could look the other man straight in the eye. He knew they were hoping that some pain would convince him to tell them what they wanted to hear. But Sherlock had no incentive to cooperate; admitting that he wasn't an average Ukrainian citizen would only hasten his demise. If he admitted the whole truth, that he was actually an undercover English agent, his life expectancy was likely to be reduced to the time it took to assemble a firing squad. So while he knew it was unwise to antagonize the other man, it was still more advantageous for him in the long run to keep his mouth shut and give them nothing.

“Feel like talking now?” the security officer demanded, leaning even closer and putting his face right up next to Sherlock’s. For one heart-stopping second, he was tempted to bite the other man’s overly large nose, but he managed to restrain himself in time. It was one thing to display quiet dignity and resistance in the face of such brutality. It was quite another to actively court potentially catastrophic injuries. So he bit his tongue and kept his gaze locked on the other man's eyes. They narrowed in irritation and less than a second later, Sherlock felt his fist slam into again, this time with the side of his head. Slumped once more in his seat as his vision began to swim and the world went black around the edges.

“Think about it,” the other man growled, abruptly moving backwards and heading towards the door to the corridor. “There's no one here to rescue you and I've barely even broken a sweat.” With that, he left the room, slamming the metal door shut behind him. The resulting metallic clang echoed off the concrete walls for a solid minute after his departure. The ringing in his ears only served to multiply the ringing inside his head and he let his eyes close tightly this time, in an effort to limit the amount of sensory overload running through his body. While he struggled to bring his transport back under control, he let his mind drift away from his surroundings and back to the hours after his capture.

\-----

Sherlock figured he was lucky in some ways; he had deduced that he had been unconscious for two and a half minutes at most, judging by the position of the officers around him when he had had come around. He had been flipped onto his stomach and his arms secured by zip ties behind his back while he had been unconscious, but he was still laying in the intersection where he had been apprehended. At least they hadn't found an excuse to manhandle him further or literally put the boot in a few times while he had been unconscious. It was highly likely that they would have delivered a few swift kicks if he had been out for much longer, all in the name of helping him regain consciousness.

Once he had been deposited at the station a day and a half ago, Sherlock had positioned himself at the back of the holding tank. There had been at least two hundred people detained with him that night and Sherlock’s best hope to keep himself safe at this point was to keep a low profile. While he might be resigned to the eventual end of this mission, getting beaten to death by police thugs in Sevastopol wasn’t one of the end games he was prepared to accept. He preferred a less messy and painful death, if he was going to be picky about it.

So he had done his best to be one of the last detainees processed. Dawn had broken over the horizon before he had been yanked out of the tank and escorted into an office just like this one. The extremely tired looking sergeant had spent the next thirty minutes trying to badger him into talking. He had run through all the standard interrogation techniques, from the soft peddle to good cop/bad cop, but Sherlock hadn’t spoken at all, except to repeatedly insist that he was just an ordinary Ukrainian citizen who had immigrated from Odessa four years ago. 

When the sergeant had pushed his chair back from the desk at the end of the interview, Sherlock had hoped, for maybe half a minute, that the sergeant just might believe his story. But he hadn’t been so lucky; this sergeant was obviously a little smarter than most. He had come to the decision that it was best to keep Sherlock in custody while the police investigated his story, since there was no way to immediately corroborate his papers. He had been escorted to his tiny cell and left alone for the most part. It was far from the ideal outcome, but all probabilities considered, it also was far from the worst. At least it had given him time.

After the initial interview, Sherlock’s stay in the prison had been fairly uneventful so far. He had spent hours lying on the narrow cot that had been shoved in the corner and staring blankly up at the ceiling. There wasn’t room to pace properly, so he couldn’t even use physical activity to assist his brain in sorting itself out. The bars on the cell door allowed him a narrow view of the passageway and for a while, he had amused himself by deducing those who passed. But that had only amused him for a while and the constant noise kept him from focusing properly. In the end, he had abandoned the game and had tried to blank as much of the white noise as possible.

\-----

The click of the door handle brought Sherlock back to the present. The door to the corridor creaked open, and Sherlock’ felt himself tense up again as the Russian and the sergeant strolled back inside the office. There was a smirk growing across the policeman’s face as he saw Sherlock’s battered condition for the first time.

“Well,” he said smugly, “unless you’ve changed your mind and suddenly want to talk to us, it seems like your stay in Sevastopol is over.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, his voice a little strained from the pain that lingered in his midsection.

“Well, my friend here,” he pointed to the Russian who was leaning casually against the door frame, “has custody of you now unless you start talking.”

“Custody?” Sherlock knew what it meant, of course, but he needed to make the sergeant spell it out to have his suspicions confirmed.

“Yes, he’ll be taking you with him and believe me, you won’t enjoy your stay.”

“Where am I going?”

The sergeant opened his mouth but hesitated a minute. He glanced over his shoulder back towards the Russian, who was frowning. He obviously didn’t want the sergeant to go into any sort of detail.

“Well,” the officer said eventually, “that’s going to be for you to find out.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He knew what it meant. He was going to be transferred to some top secret Russian facility now, where they would try to force him to give up all his secrets. The ties holding his hands to the chair back were cut and with his hands still cuffed behind his back, he was marched from the police station and out into the street outside. He was forced into the back of a waiting van and before he had a chance to get his bearings, the engine had started and he was being driven to one of any number of secret Russian interrogation facilities, most likely never to seen outside of its walls alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm apparently awful at keeping to a publishing schedule over the last few chapters. I'm really sorry this one took so long to get out. I had to reorganize it a few times, trying to figure the best way to tell what happened after Sherlock's capture. The original plan was to tell it immediately after the chapter with his arrest, but it was turning out to be kind of boring since Sherlock is doing his best to keep a low profile. I hope the flashback works better.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! Comments, corrections and questions are all welcome.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Angst and mentions of possible suicide

**March 2**

The familiar smells of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen soothed the frayed edges of Greg’s nerves as he sat down at her kitchen table. He studied her as she bustled around the kitchen making tea, noting the signs of the stress that had grown steadily more obvious over the last few weeks. The worry lines around her eyes were more pronounced than ever, her shoulders were now slightly stooped, and her easy laughter was mostly missing. He knew what was troubling her; the same worries were tying his stomach in knots and haunting him in his sleep.

They were both deeply concerned about how John was coping. Ever since the funeral, he had retreated to Baker Street, completely shutting himself away from everyone with the exception of Mrs. Hudson. Greg knew the blows John had suffered over the last few months were enough to bring anyone to their knees. If he were brutally honest with himself, he admitted that he was most afraid that every time his phone rang, the caller was going to give him the news that John was gone too. That was why he visited so often, desperately trying to find some way to help his friend survive the loss of all these loved ones.

"How are you today, Detective?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she set the tea tray in front of him, the quiet chime of rattling china rattle betraying the shake in her hands. “You’re looking very tired.”

"I'm managing, Mrs. Hudson," he responded, smiling a little wryly as he realized she had been studying him while he had been watching her. He pointed the small packing box that he had brought with him. "I brought the last of John's things from his other apartment. All that's left there is Mary's clothes and the things they had bought for the baby."

"That's good, dear," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I’ll let John know when I go up in a bit with his lunch."

"I don't know what to do about what's left," Greg admitted, staring at the teacup in front of him. "I suppose Mary’s clothes can go to a charity shop, but there might be some mementos that he wants to keep, and I have no idea what they might be." Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily, running a trembling hand over her eyes.

"I just don't know," she admitted quietly. "He's in no state to make any kind of decision like that. He barely responds to anything and he has shown no desire to even come down here for a meal, much less step outside the door.” She took another sip of her tea, obviously trying to find an answer that would be easiest on John. “Can't we just keep the apartment for a little while longer?"

Greg shook his head regretfully. "The landlord stopped by while I was there. Seemed like a nice enough guy and he was sympathetic to John’s situation. But he wanted to know if John was planning on living there, because he didn’t want it to sit empty for too long."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, shaking her head and thinking for a minute. "Well, I guess we can keep those things here. No one has ever shown any interest in renting the flat downstairs, so I guess we can keep everything down there. We'll have to make sure everything is bagged properly, keep the moisture out, but it might work for a little while."

Greg smiled, feeling a little relieved. Where would they be without Mrs. Hudson? She was so quiet and unassuming at first glance, but just like John, she had such hidden depths. Greg wasn't sure why he had ever underestimated her; Sherlock certainly wasn't a person to tolerate fools, so it made sense that the few people he chose to surround himself with were much more than they appeared at first sight.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied with a smile. “The landlord said the lease runs out the end of next month, so I’ll start boxing up what’s left and bringing it over as I have time.”

Just then, the bell for 221B rang. Both he and Mrs. Hudson went quiet, turning slightly in the direction of the hallway and listening for sounds of life upstairs. But there was no answering sound of floorboards creaking or any other sound that indicated John might be inclined to answer the door this time.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson sighed and went out into the hallway, no doubt to shoo whoever was calling away. Greg drained the last dregs of his tea and set the cup down with a sigh. He should head out soon; there was the never-ending stack of paperwork he needed to attend to on his desk. But just as he was about to stand up and head out the back door, the sound of a conversation at the door caused him to stop and turn towards it instead. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but it seemed much more involved than the standard “I’ll tell him you called” conversation; Greg was also sure he recognized the newcomer’s voice.

He cracked open the hall door and peeked out into the hallway; sure enough, there stood Mycroft Holmes, framed by dark wood doorframe and still standing in the street. Greg lingered unnoticed in the doorway a minute, watching them talk. He couldn't hear what they were discussing, but it looked like Mrs. Hudson was trying her best to keep him outside. As he watched them, it occurred to Greg that the normally perceptive Mycroft Holmes hadn't noticed that there was a third person in the hallway.

That wasn't the only thing that was unusual about Mycroft today; for once, his appearance was several degrees less than his usual impeccable facade. His hair was slightly dishevelled, there were worry lines etched around his eyes and, most unusually, his jaw was clouded by the shadow of a facial hair. Not once in the decade that he had known the Holmes brothers had Greg ever seen Mycroft looking anything other than freshly shaven. He could even remember joking with John that he suspected that Mycroft had a barber shave him at least three times a day to keep his face completely smooth.

He shifted a little in the doorway as he considered the changes in the other man’s appearance, which made the floorboards squeak slightly. It was just loud enough to make the two people standing in the doorway look around. Greg might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a flicker of something that looked strangely like relief when Mycroft saw him standing there. 

"Detective Inspector, I'm glad you are here," Mycroft said quickly, finally managing to sidestep past Mrs. Hudson and insert himself into the foyer. Greg swallowed a chuckle as he saw the glare that she shot in Mycroft’s direction as she closed the door behind him.

"Now, Mycroft," she tried, giving her sternest look, "you just can't go up there. John hasn't said much to me, except that he doesn't want to see anyone. Give the poor man some privacy to do his grieving."

"My apologies for my persistence, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, a genuine note of discomfort in his voice. "Unfortunately, it's imperative that I speak with Doctor Watson immediately. He needs to know about some recent serious developments." Greg's stomach dropped passed his navel at those words.

"Something's happened to Sherlock." Greg responded when he found his voice. It wasn’t a question; he was absolutely certain that nothing short of a catastrophe would have brought Mycroft here today. The two men stared at each other for almost a solid minute, as if Mycroft was surprised that Greg could make that intuitive leap. Mrs. Hudson’s sigh finally broke the silence in the entryway.

"Fine. But if he asks you to go, I will insist you leave him in peace," she said finally, turning back to her flat. "I'll bring up so tea in a minute."

As Greg led the way up the seventeen stairs, his mind began running wild, trying to figure out what had happened. Mycroft had admitted weeks ago that Sherlock was on what amounted to a suicide mission. A knot of dread settled in his stomach as he realized the most likely scenario was that the mission had ended, and with it Sherlock’s life. But Greg desperately hoped he was wrong, that there was something other than his brother’s death that brought Mycroft to Baker Street determined to see John. If Greg was right, though, he was sure in the deepest part of his mind that it wouldn’t be long before another death followed Sherlock’s. Greg just couldn’t see a scenario where John found a way to survive the deaths of the three people he loved most in such close succession.

But he forced that thought out of his head as he went to open the door to the sitting room. He didn’t want John to pick up on his anxieties any sooner than absolutely necessary. As the door swung open, Greg found himself holding his breath, a little worried about what he might see. The sitting room was dark; the curtains were mostly closed, but one beam of sunlight shone through the gap between the heavy panels. It fell, first across the back of Sherlock's empty chair then across John's crumpled form. He sat there, scruff heavy on his jawline, wearing his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, looking like he hadn't moved in days.

John stiffened as he heard the footsteps ascending the stairs. He had heard the bell ring and the sound of a conversation happening at the front door, but he had just shut it out. He knew Mrs. Hudson came and went every day, leaving food and tea to tempt him with, but she had been an absolute angel when it came to keeping everyone else outside the flat. He knew people meant well, but he just didn't have it in him to try to speak with anyone. Nothing they said could take away the giant hole that was threatening to swallow him whole.

Numerous times since the funeral, John had found himself wondering if it would ever get better. How could he move beyond the crippling grief? Was there even anything to move forward for? Mary and the baby were gone, Sherlock was never coming back and all of it was his fault. Clearly, anyone he loved would always be in danger, so maybe it would be better if he didn’t even try, if he just disappeared from the world. Right now, the best idea he had for the future was to just keep sitting here in the dark until the world at large forgot about John Watson.

The sound of the door opening startled him and a glance over his shoulder made his frown deepen and his breath freeze in his throat. He couldn't really be surprised that Greg was here; Mrs. Hudson had mentioned that he had visited a few times, bringing his clothes and other things from his old apartment, but up until now, he had never tried to see John. He knew he owed Greg for everything he had done, for never hesitating to do anything that might help him out. John didn’t know what would have happened if he had been forced to go back and pack his clothes. The very idea of stepping outside 221B caused his hands to shake and sweat to bead across his forehead. 

But the sight of Mycroft Holmes hovering uncertainly behind Greg made John's whole world stop. He had never seen Mycroft looking anything less than completely composed, even in the final messy days of the Adler affair. Mycroft had been furious with his brother but even then he'd kept the smooth facade in place. But now, he looked worn down with worry, the frayed edges of his nerves blatantly obvious even in the gloom of 221B.

"What do you want?" John demanded, his voice a soft croak from so many days of silence. He didn't even try to elaborate. They were the intruders in his solitude; it was up to them to explain why they were there. Greg looked over his shoulder obviously expecting Mycroft to elaborate and John watched as he took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to square his shoulders.

"May we come in, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft might be looking a little stressed, but his voice was as cultured as ever. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there have been some ... developments ... that you need to know. I'm also here to ask for your help."

John entertained the notion of sending them away, but after a minute, he nodded tiredly, his bleary gaze traveling back to the empty chair in front of him. He really didn't think he could do anything right now that Mycroft would consider helpful. Doing anything more involved than sitting here staring into nothing felt beyond him most of the time. But he supposed he could sit here and pretend to listen until he went away again.

So John just sat in his chair and stared straight ahead, only vaguely aware of the movement happening in the flat around him. He was vaguely aware of the tinkle of china and the sudden addition of Mrs. Hudson’s voice; she had no doubt brought up more of her never-ending supply of tea and biscuits. A brush of a hand in his hair caused him to look up and he met Mrs. Hudson's concerned gaze for what felt like the first time in days. She didn’t say anything or attempt to drag him into conversation, which was a relief. She just perched on the arm of his chair for a minute, smiling sadly down at him before leaning down and planting a tender kiss on the top of his head before hurrying back down to her flat.

He knew she was worried about him, the same way Greg was. It was evident in the number of trays of food that kept showing up on the table and the leftovers stashed in the refrigerator. He wished there was something he could do to ease their concern, but right now he could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning and out of his chair at night. Doing anything other than just surviving was just completely beyond him right now.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and John looked up from his lap with a start. He was a little surprised but also grateful to see that no one had settled into Sherlock's chair. Greg had pulled the coffee table closer and was seated on top of it while Mycroft had pulled up a kitchen chair over to sit on. It showed a degree of sensitivity that he hadn't expected from the older Holmes brother.

"I have some troubling news to share," Mycroft began, still with that unfamiliar air of uncertainty. John didn't show any outward reaction however; he just sat there and waited for Mycroft to continue. "As we talked about the last time the three of us met," he said with a gesture that encompassed Greg as well as himself, "Sherlock has been in Russia for the last two months as part of a deal we arranged with my colleagues after the death of Charles Magnussen."

John flinched at the name; he couldn't help it. The memory of that meeting on Christmas and its disastrous outcome was one of the nightmares that haunted John every time he tried to sleep. His heart started pounding, just like it had in the aftermath of the gunshot and he pulled in a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm down.

"I'm sorry to bring that up," Mycroft said hurriedly, obviously picking up on John's distress. "What happened on Christmas day is not why I'm here."

"Then why?" John asked, still struggling to put words together coherently. It was like the last few weeks had robbed him of his ability to carry on a normal conversation.

"A week ago, Sherlock moved from Russia to Crimea to continue his investigation," Mycroft said, hurriedly moving the conversation forward. "I was not informed of his movements until after the fact; if I had known his intentions, I would have found a way to dissuade him. It's one thing to be in Russia trying to uncover Putin's plans, it's quite another for my brother to imbed himself inside the heart of the conflict zone."

"Why would he do that?" Greg interrupted.

"Because he's doing his best to complete his mission," Mycroft answered heavily. "He was instructed to discover Putin's agenda for Crimea and Ukraine using whatever means necessary. In the last ten days, the situation on the peninsula has grown exponentially more volatile. Most of our agents in the area have sought refuge in other cities as the political landscape has shifted." Mycroft took a deep breath here, as if he could barely bring himself to continue. "Unfortunately, Sherlock’s partner has a personal history that makes it impossible for him to safely enter the peninsula, so he went alone. It was a huge gamble, but Sherlock obviously felt the need to be onsite to provide the most accurate information he could."

Over on the table, Greg had grown extremely pale and he appeared to struggle to say what was on the tip of his tongue. John frowned a little; since that last meeting, he had barely paid any attention to the situation in Eastern Europe. The fact that there were valid reasons for his distraction wasn't much of a comfort as he realized the danger Sherlock had willingly entered.

"So, is it safe to assume he's been captured?" Greg asked tensely, his eyes burrowing into Mycroft's face as if he was convinced the other man was hiding something dire from them. As that thought blossomed in John's eyes, his insides, which had spent most of the last few weeks feeling completely dead, froze in horror. But before he could work himself into too much of a state, Mycroft continued.

"I received word last evening that he had been captured sometime during the previous night," Mycroft confirmed with a heavy voice. "His current condition and location is unknown. According to his partner, Sherlock was arrested while observing one of the large, Pro-Russian protests. We also have an unconfirmed report that he was detained inside the city jail that night. The only thing we know for certain is that no one has seen him since the evening of February 28."

"Well, if he was arrested by the police, can’t you contact someone over there and get him released?" Greg asked, sounding confused. "I thought the Ukrainians were closer to the West than Russia?"

"That is true for the majority of the country, but Crimea has always been a distinctly different region than the rest of the country. It has changed hands between Ukraine and Russia several times over the last century, but there's a sizeable and powerful Pro-Russian population that lives there. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it appears that most of the government officials, not to mention the police, consider themselves Russian instead of Ukrainian."

John sat there, feeling like a great weight was pressing down on him. Sherlock had been captured and was almost certainly in Russian hands. For the first time since that awful night at the hospital, he felt something other than smothering numbness. It was panic, true, but right now, John was amazed he could feel anything besides the numbness and grief he had been suffocating under for weeks.

"What can we do about it?" he asked quietly, his eyes boring into Mycroft's. He didn't miss the flick of Mycroft's eyes towards where Greg was seated, or the quick flick of his lips that seemed to imply he was pleased by John's question. He didn’t bother to try to figure it out though. Even in the best of times, deciphering Mycroft was difficult at best.

"Well, right now, I am working every connection I have at the ministry. Unfortunately, Sherlock's capture does nothing to change the reasons why he was sent on that mission." With that, John’s stomach clenched; of course the government officials wouldn’t change their mind just because Sherlock had been captured. They had agreed to send him on that damn mission in the first place, knowing it would cost Sherlock his life.

“So what are you planning?" John asked after a minute’s silence, fighting to keep his panic from showing in his voice. A quick glance over at Greg showed that he was fighting the same battle. His hands were griping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles had gone completely white.

"I've had my people investigating that video message and I just received confirmation last night that the body we recovered from the rooftop was not a genetic match for the known samples we had from James Moriarty."

"Mycroft," John interrupted. "Keep it simple, please," he said, letting his frustration and uncertainty creep into his voice. He just wasn't up to deciphering Mycroft Holmes at his most inscrutable.

"My plan is to use the evidence that James Moriarty might very well still be alive as leverage to overturn Sherlock's exile. Lady Smallwood in spearheading that portion of the plan to make sure that it can’t be dismissed as me giving into sentiment. While she handles that, I’m seeking as much information as I can about where Sherlock might be taken. I wish I had more news, but the confusion on Crimea is making everything more difficult. And unfortunately, time is now officially running out for my brother." John wasn't sure, but he thought he might have heard Mycroft's voice catch on that last sentence.

John sat in silence for more than a minute as he processed everything that Mycroft had just said. How did you find one man in the middle of all that chaos? Suddenly, one of the first things that Mycroft said this afternoon popped back into his brain.

"Mycroft," he said quietly, "what did you mean about needing my help?"

He watched as Mycroft heaved a deep breath, seeming to prepare himself for making an important revelation.

"I'm going to rescue Sherlock, with or without my colleagues’ approval," he announced quietly, the tension growing thick in the room. "Once I have a few more details ironed out, I'm heading to Russia to bring Sherlock to safety." He paused there, taking another deep breath and fixing his gaze squarely on John's. A beam of understanding passed between the two men there in the quiet of the sitting room.

"And when I go, John, I want you to come with me."

John just sat there, somehow managing to be simultaneously completely floored but also completely unsurprised by that declaration. 

"Why? It’s been a long time since I was a soldier, Mycroft."

"While your doctor skills and soldier’s experience will undoubtedly be helpful, there is another, more compelling reason I want you on this mission." Mycroft hesitated for so long, John was afraid that he had forgotten what he had intended to say, but eventually he took a deep breath and spoke again. “The main reason is that you, John Watson, are the most important person in Sherlock’s life. And your knowledge of my brother might be the difference between success and failure.”

John didn’t speak; he just nodded and a few minutes later, Mycroft and Greg left Baker Street. The quiet of the flat settled around John again, but it wasn't the oppressive silence of even that morning. He was still numb, sad and depressed. The deaths of his wife and daughter were still millstones around his neck. But now, there was something else as well. Deep in his soul, John felt a flicker of something that might be considered hope. And to think it had all started at a simple phrase from one Mycroft Holmes.

For the first time in a long time, John Watson felt like he had something to live and fight for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Yet again, it's been too long between updates. I'm really sorry it's taking me so long to write. I've got good and bad news too. The bad news is that it might be a similar wait before the next chapter. I've got a cousin's wedding, family visiting from out of town and my sister moving to another state all coming up in the next month. 
> 
> But the good news is that I've roughly plotted out the rest of the story! As of right now, we are looking at potentially another 9-10 chapters plus an epilogue. Of course, that's all subject to change. When I started writing this story, I had no idea it would stretch much past 15 chapters, let alone closer to 40. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and any comments/feedback you have are welcome!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings: Violence and blood.**

**March 3**

Pain ricocheted up Sherlock's spine as yet another bone-jarring rut in the road caused him to slam backwards into the sidewall of the van. He wished he could brace himself to keep it from happening time and time again, since the road they were travelling on was steadily deteriorating. Unfortunately, since his wrists were cuffed tightly together in front him and secured with a short chain to a ring mounted to the ceiling, he couldn’t reach anything in the van. The ruts and bumps in the road were aggravating the bruising he had received during the beating in the jailhouse in Sevastopol.

Compounding the pain in his ribs and abdomen was the fact that his arms had started to ache from their awkward positioning hours ago. While Sherlock had no way to deduce their final destination, he was fairly confident that they were back inside Russia. Shortly after they had left the police station, the van had come to a prolonged stand-still, except or a slight side-to-side sway motion that had continued for a few minutes. After a bone-jarring stop, the van’s engine had restarted and the normal motion of the van had resumed. Sherlock was fairly certain that they had boarded a ferry and crossed the Strait of Kerch. But that theory didn’t provide much in the way of comfort; as many would-be world rulers had discovered, Russia was a huge country that was ridiculously easy to become lost in. He could be headed practically anywhere in the southern part of the country.

Sherlock also didn’t know exactly how long they had been driving. It felt like it had to have been at least eight hours since they had left the jail, but it was impossible to be sure when he was locked in the windowless cargo area of the fan. It was lit only by the cracks around the door and a few rust holes over the rear wheels. The only solid indication that he had about the passage of time was that, every once in a while, the curtain that separated the cargo area from the driver’s cab would part and one of the two men in the front would check to make sure he hadn’t pulled a Harry Houdini-like escape. During those split-second glimpses of the world beyond the windshield, Sherlock had been able to note the changing sky colour. While they had started out in the afternoon, the sky had been pitch black the last time the curtain had parted.

He had only been let out once so far; a few hours ago, the van had pulled over in front of what turned out to be a petrol station in the middle of nowhere. Through the curtain, Sherlock had been able to hear as first one of the guards then the other left the van. Finally, after what felt like close to an hour, Bruiser (as he had nicknamed the man who had assaulted him at the police station) had opened the side door of the van and dragged him outside. He looked around as best he could, but there had been no obvious clues to give Sherlock any hint about their location. After being allowed to use a truly disgusting lavatory, he'd been given a minute to choke down a few bites of a stale sandwich before he had been shoved back in the van.

The only positive part of the journey for Sherlock was that he had been left alone in the back of the van for the entire trip. For whatever reason, his guard had not taken advantage of the hours they were travelling to continue their interrogation uninterrupted. It was a startling oversight on their part. Sherlock had taken full advantage of their negligence to shore up his mental defences. He had even managed to slip into his Mind Palace for the first time in days. While he hadn't dared to completely lose himself in the warren of hallways and rooms, it had felt refreshing to spend some time organizing his thoughts and clearing the facts of the investigation out of his head.

But the main lure of his mind palace hadn’t been the wall with the photographs and details of Putin’s plans. Instead, he had spent just enough time there to add the few acts he had learned since his last visit before turning towards the locked door that stood between him and the recreation of his home. For more than two hours, he had sat in his chair and just stared at the walls, soaking up the remembered sights and smells of Baker Street. The sound of John's laughter, the smells of Mrs. Hudson's cooking and even the distinct tread of Mycroft's shoes on the stairs soothed the tattered edges of his soul. For so much of this mission, he had avoided the call of home. But at this moment, it felt absolutely necessary so he let himself linger as the van made its way through south-western Russia.

The van turned suddenly, almost as if the driver had missed their turn, and Sherlock felt the tension return to his body as his surroundings started demanding more of his attention. Once the van straightened out again, the road became considerably worse, with almost constant shaking and bumping; they must have turned down a gravel path. The pain in his ribs increased the longer they jostled down the road. Fortunately, just when Sherlock had felt like he wouldn't be able to bite back his moans of discomfort any longer, the van pulled to an abrupt stop. Sherlock gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing to slow down and the pain to recede while he had a minute to gather himself.

As he sat there in the dark, Sherlock caught the sound of voices outside the van as the front doors opened and then slammed shut. He recognized the voices of his two guards, but there was at least one voice that he hadn't heard before. He couldn’t hear the actual conversation through the walls of the van, but the tone of voice was friendly and relaxed. Apparently their arrival had been expected. The knot of tension in Sherlock's stomach grew as he heard the men break out into what only could be described as raucous laughter. He was fairly certain that this was no stop-over; when they had stopped at that petrol station, his escorts had been tense and on guard, with nothing like the friendly banter that they were engaging in now.

Suddenly, Sherlock was almost blinded by a light when the side door directly opposite him was wrenched open once more. After spending the last several hours in almost perpetual darkness, he could barely see as his hands were unfastened from the chain and he was yanked out of the van. Pins and needles shot up and down his legs and the bruises in his chest protested as he struggled to stay upright. As he fought to maintain his balance and his dignity, Sherlock tried to absorb as much of his surroundings as possible as his eyesight returned.

The sky was that murky blue that always happened right before dawn. They had stopped near the edge of a large clearing, with a field in front of him and several buildings off to his left. On the horizon, there were a few foothills with the first hint of the sun just clearing the treetops. They must have been in the car for at least twelve hours then, judging by the time of day. Sherlock turned slightly, casting a quick glance over the compound of buildings. The closest one, where the floodlight that had blinded him earlier was hanging, was a low, garage-like structure, almost completely unremarkable from its lack of windows to the dingy, white paint peeling from walls. Just beyond that, however, there were several more imposing buildings, each with garrets, pointed roofs and borderline garish architectural features. This could have been a former hotel or confiscated aristocratic country retreat.

A hand on his shoulder forced Sherlock to turn so that he was facing a door in the back corner of the garage and the three men who were watching him carefully - his guards and the newcomer, who must have been the man who had been waiting for them. But before he could deduce more than the basics (younger 30s, single, career counter-intelligence officer, but obviously not in favour with the current leadership to be stationed here instead of in Moscow or Rostov), Bruiser grabbed his cuffed hands and he was being pulled towards the door. The new man moved ahead of them and unlocked the door, taking the chance to leer at Sherlock as he was pushed through the opening.

The hallway just beyond the heavy, metal door was almost as dark as the back of the van. There were no windows in the corridor; the only light was provided by periodic bare light bulbs hanging from ceiling fixtures. The slam of the door closing behind them echoed down the bare walls, mixing with the sounds of their footsteps as Sherlock was led deeper into the building. The echoes made the hallway feel even more ominous, in a completely over-the-top sort of way. Sherlock was fairly certain he had watched this exact scene in several of John’s beloved Bond films. He couldn’t keep the smirk that spread over his lips at the memory of those ridiculous movies as he moved down a couple of drab corridors before being led down a steep stairwell. The corridor at the bottom of the staircase was even more dismal than the one they had just left upstairs.

He stumbled onward, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep up with the brisk pace set by the man leading the way. Finally, after stumbling a few times on the uneven concrete floor, Sherlock found himself being shoved through a heavy, metal door. A quick glance was all it took to take in his surroundings. A mattress had been thrown into the far corner, a locked metal cabinet stood in the opposite corner, and a flimsy-looking metal folding chair beneath another bare lightbulb were the only furnishings in the room. The only decorations were the signs of mould and neglect that stained the walls and a few suspicious spots on the ceiling. He supposed it was a fittingly depressing setting for what was likely to be his final battle of wits.

The slamming of the door behind him drew Sherlock’s attention off the room. He turned back towards the door, noting idly that the driver had left the room. It wasn’t much comfort, however, since he had been by far the smallest and least intimidating member in Sherlock’s escort. The two men left, standing like gargoyles on either side of the door, were certainly sufficiently menacing enough on their own. Bruiser was standing on Sherlock’s right, and he certainly didn’t need a further demonstration of his capabilities. The ache in his ribs had worsened with every bump on the road.

The newcomer could have been a clone of Bruiser with the scale on the copier turned up to 125%. The only major difference between the two men was their eyes. While Bruiser’s eyes were still almost completely cold and lifeless, the newcomer’s eyes gleamed even in the dull basement light, revealing what was surely a sadistic streak that served him well in his particular line of work.

“Welcome to my workplace,” the newcomer said, his voice little more than a low growl. A smirk grew across his face as he looked Sherlock over. “I hope your trip was comfortable and you’re relieved to be out of the dangerous situation in Sevastopol.” Sherlock heard Bruiser chuckle darkly, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other man. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it is definitely in your best interest to cooperate with us.”

Sherlock didn't reply; he just stood still beneath the solitary light, hands still cuffed in front of him, and waited as the silence stretched in the room. The three men stood there, staring at each other and waiting to see who would break the silence first. Eventually, a frustrated sigh escaped the other man’s lips and Sherlock had to work to keep his face blank as he chalked up that minor victory.

“Of course, how rude of us,” the man continued finally, his voice giving away signs of his growing frustration. “We haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? You’ve already met Dimitri over there,” he said, pointing to Bruiser. _Shame,_ Sherlock thought wryly, _Bruiser fit him better, especially in his particular line of work. Maybe I should suggest he change it._ Dimitri’s only reaction was a slight deepening of his scowl. Sherlock hid a small frown at that; was he uncomfortable with what was about to occur, or did he think Sherlock didn't even deserve the courtesy of knowing who was abusing him? Sherlock was fairly certain that it was the latter, especially given their interactions over the last twenty-four hours.

“My name is Vasily,” the other man continued. “And now that we've completed the niceties, why don't you return the favour and tell us who you really are?”

“I’ve already told you,” Sherlock replied, injecting a note of exasperation into his voice. “My name is Nicholas Smirnov. I don’t know…” A fist slammed into the side of his jaw, cutting his words off and causing him to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek. The coppery taste of blood exploded through his mouth. He ran his tongue over the wound, hiding a wince at the ragged edges – that blow had done more than a little damage. He shot a dark look over at Dimitri, who still had his fist cocked, ready to strike again; As the two men stared at each other, Sherlock gathered a mouthful of the blood and spat it in his direction.

The burst of pain on the side of his head that followed wasn’t completely unexpected; taunting these two men certainly fell into the 'not good' spectrum of behaviour. But Sherlock still felt a flash of pleasure from watching that brief flash of anger cross Dimitri’s otherwise impassive face when the blood had splattered onto his trouser leg. In some ways, Sherlock felt like it was a declaration of intent; the other two men might very well be the people who ended up killing him, but he had no intention of leaving them unmarked in the process.

“I don’t know what secrets you are protecting,” Vasily said, completely ignoring the blood that trickled out of the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “But there’s no point in trying to hide anything. There’s no one who knows where you are. There’s no chance of being rescued and there’s no way you can escape from here. The only way to stop the pain is to tell us what we want to know. And believe me, you will tell us what we want to know. It's only a matter of time, so you might as well save yourself as much pain as possible.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sherlock responded, trying to sound bewildered rather than defensive or dazed. That blow had managed to hit him in almost a perfect spot; his ears was ringing and he was seeing double. But there was really no point in changing his story at this point; even if Mycroft knew what had happened to him, Vasily was correct that there was no possibility of rescue. Sherlock was just upholding his end of the deal – his life in exchange for John’s safety and future. “I’m telling you the truth," he insisted again in a slightly whiny voice. "My name is Nicholas Smirnov and I’m from Odessa. I’m a mechanic.”

A hand slammed down on his shoulder, cutting short Sherlock's canned backstory once more. Before he could do more than stutter to a halt, he was slammed him down onto the chair behind him. The flimsy metal seat creaked ominously as his weight hit the chair and Sherlock’s vision went black around the edges. By the time his head cleared, his arms had been re-cuffed behind his back and secured somehow to the back of the chair. He gave them a quick tug, but they gave little more than an inch.

Dimitri moved around from behind him, fumbling slightly with something in his pocket. As soon as his hand cleared the edge, Sherlock caught a glimpse of a decorated handle clenched in his fist. A sense of dread settled over him as he realized what it must be; the sensation spread seconds later as his fears were confirmed. The swish of a blade swinging out from the handle seemed to echo around the room. He didn't have to fake the look of trepidation on his face as he watched Dimitri stalk forward, the blade pointed menacingly at his chest. Sherlock couldn’t help holding his breath once the man drew within reach of him.

It took only a few slashes of the knife for Dimitri to cut his shirt away. He didn’t bother being careful with the sharp edge and, as his shirt fell away, Sherlock felt the sting of fresh cuts in several places around his chest and shoulders. The material, trapped between his back and the chair, didn’t flutter to the floor, but Sherlock regretted the loss of the slight insulation it provided against the cold, damp basement. He decided to blame the cold for the goose-bumps that broke out over his skin, instead of the fear that starting to take over.

“As much as I’d love to persuade you to tell us the truth, I wouldn’t want to be selfish,” Dimitri growled as he stepped back towards the far wall. His eyes roved over Sherlock’s bare chest, lingering over a few of his more tender areas – no doubt enjoying the growing signs of the abuse he dealt to Sherlock the day before. “My friend here hasn’t had the pleasure yet.”

As Dimitri leaned against the wall behind him, Sherlock gave his full attention to Vasily. The bigger man was leering in a most unpleasant way, also eyeing up Sherlock’s naked torso in a brief inspection, no doubt scouting out his weakest points. Sherlock just stared back at him; he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him plead or cower. As Vasily walked towards him, the gleam of metal in his fist caught Sherlock’s eye and his stomach sank. While he had been busy watching Dimitri with the knife, Vasily had been readying himself and now a vicious set of knuckledusters adorned the fingers of his right hand.

The first blow to his ribs hit one of the spots that that Dimitri had favoured the day before. Sherlock had the breath knocked out of him and the next few blows hit in almost the same spot. On the eighth blow – Sherlock found himself counting in a desperate attempt to ignore the pain exploding in his head and chest – the points on the brass knuckles caught on his skin and ripped a large, claw-like set of cuts across his rib cage.

As Sherlock concentrated on the feeling of the blood dripping down his side, several more blows rained across his shoulders and arms. After a few minutes of constant blows, Vasily stepped back a few paces. Sherlock’s jaw was clenched so tight it took a minute to pry it apart, and when he finally did, a trickle of blood made him realize his had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood. Sherlock and Vasily locked eyes for a minute; the gleam in the other man’s made Sherlock’s blood run cold. The sadistic streak he had seen hints of earlier was in full evidence now. 

As they stared at each other, Sherlock felt something wet on his cheeks and realized that, despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to hold back all his tears. He didn’t dare look away to hide them, though; that felt like a bigger blow to his ego than a few tears running down his cheeks. As he sat there, blood drying on his chest and tears drying on his cheeks, he watched Vasily make a visible effort to calm his breathing, all the while drinking in the sight of Sherlock’s wounds.

After a few minutes however, Vasily had himself back under control and stepped back towards Sherlock, his fist rising in preparation. After a sharp blow to the side of his head, the rest of the beating became a blur. He could no longer count the blows as they landed all over his chest, head and shoulders; he wasn’t even sure who was delivering them. At times, it felt like there were too many blows happening at the same time for only one person to be delivering them. After what felt like hours and hundreds of blows, the beating finally stopped. He tried to look at Vasily, but he was having trouble opening his eyes; a few blows to his head had left him dazed and he thought he might even have a black eye or two.

“That will give you something to consider,” Vasily purred into his face. Sherlock tried to recoil, but there was nowhere for him to go. “We’ve only just begun, so unless you want a great deal more, I’d consider telling us the truth.”

With that, the light clicked off and the door slammed shut. Sherlock was left in the completely dark, cold basement, his ribs and back screaming in pain. He tried to curl into in on himself to protect his bruised torso, and he was a little surprised to find that his movement was now unrestricted; apparently, Vasily had released him at some point during the beating. Sherlock sat in that folding chair for what felt like hours while he tried to marshal the pain and find the strength to stand. The blood dripping from his wounds had turned tacky long before he managed it. 

Fortunately, it only took a few shuffling steps before he kicked the edge of the mattress with his toe. It took him several long, painful minutes to manoeuvre himself down on the mattress. It wasn’t very thick – he could feel the damp seeping through from the concrete floor – but for the first time in almost a day, he could stretch his body out. It didn’t relieve any of his other pains, naturally, but after being forced into a seated position for so long, stretching out to his full length was a bit of an improvement.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he laid there, staring up towards the ceiling into the pitch black room. The darkness wasn’t comforting. He hated the dark now, ever since those dangerous days chasing the remnants of Moriarty’s networks. After he had been captured by a gang of money launderers in Uruguay, he had spent a month in almost complete darkness which had been relieved only by the beatings he received from various members of the gang. Even after he had been back in London, safe and sound, he had still avoided being completely in the dark; he’d taken to leaving lights on in Baker Street at all hours. No one knew, of course; there had been no one around who would have noticed the change.

As he lay there in the darkness, the recollections of those long-ago beatings mingled with the memories of the last day inside Sherlock’s mind; every time he closed his eyes, he saw blurred fists, belts and other weapons swirling around him and the terror would force his eyes back open. He couldn’t even reach his mind palace; the door was blocked by all the pain and memories clouding his consciousness.

There was no way to tell how long he laid there in the dark, scared to close his eyes, The building around him was completely quiet. Eventually, he drifted off to a restless sleep, punctuated by soft cries as his nightmares tormented him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That was a longer break that I had intended. But thankfully, I'm through the really busy period now, so I am going to be able to get back into a consistent writing schedule now. Thank you to everyone who is still reading this! I'm still floored by the response this not-so-little idea of mine has gotten. I'm a bit in shock that this story is now over 100K words - I never dreamed it would be this long when I started writing it more than a year ago.
> 
> As always, feedback/comments are welcome! I'm a little concerned about the Rating I've given this. The next several chapters are going to be fairly intense, with (hopefully, if I'm a good enough writer) some fairly graphic violence in it, but in my experience on here, the Explicit rating is generally reserved for pieces with overt sexuality in them. There isn't going to be any sex in this story (no, I'm not going to subject Sherlock to sexual assault). Should I change the rating or is the mature one sufficient? I don't want anyone reading anything unwarned and being triggered.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for violence. Please read carefully if you are sensitive to it.

The pain in his chest dragged Sherlock awake after what felt like only a few hours rest; sleeping on the thin mattress obviously hadn't worked a miracle on his bruised ribs. In fact, there were few parts of his body that didn’t hurt in some way. His shoulders were extremely sore from being secured in the back of that van, he was fairly certain he had a concussion, judging by the ringing in his head, and all his joints ached, no doubt from spending hours on the cold, damp basement floor. He laid there on the floor, staying completely still and breathing deeply while he struggled to master all his aches and pains.

While he did so, he tried to focus his attention on his surroundings. He knew without even opening his eyes that the room was still completely dark. Everything was eerily quiet too; there was no sounds coming from anywhere in the building, not even the sound of a mouse scurrying through a wall cavity. He listened to the silence as long as he could, but eventually, he started to hear the whispers of his South American captors, which made his eyelids jerk open in fear.

He relaxed slightly as his eyes convinced his brain he wasn’t still trapped in that hellhole, even though his eyes couldn’t provide him any other information. The room was absolutely pitch black; there wasn't even a crack of light underneath where the door should be. Sherlock stared blankly up at the ceiling as he considered his options. The easiest and least-painful path was to just stay here on the mattress, focus on managing the pain and wait for Dimitri and Vasily to return. But he bristled at that level of passivity; he might be resigned to his ultimate fate, but that didn't mean he should lay back and just wait for it to arrive.

It took a few minutes and many muttered curses as pain spread across his ribcage, but he finally managed to pull himself to his feet. Swaying slightly, he paused for a few minutes, waiting for his body to adjust to his new position. Once he was feeling steadier, Sherlock began to edge his way around the room, running his hands over the walls in a methodical fashion. But other than damp patches where the plaster was starting to deteriorate, the room was a complete blank. There was no handle or keyhole on this side of the metal door and there was no sign of a light switch either. The metal cabinet in the far corner was bolted to the wall and a padlock secured the doors. He tried shaking it, but there was only an indistinct rattle from the inside, which gave him no real indication of its contents.

During his inspection, Sherlock avoided the centre of the room and the chair he had been tied to; the thought of voluntarily sitting in it brought back echoes of the punches. Unfortunately, that left the mattress as the only place for him to sit that was more comfortable than the concrete floor. Manoeuvring his still-aching body down onto it took several long, agonizing minutes, but he finally managed, leaning his shoulders up against the wall. It wouldn’t be comfortable in the long run, but after all the effort it took to stand up In the first place, he didn’t want to lie down again so soon.

As he sat there, staring blankly into the darkness, Sherlock tensed as the nightmares began to swirl around inside his mind yet again. He closed his eyes, searching his head for something to distract him. He couldn’t risk fully entering his Mind Palace, but after a few minutes, a small smile broke over his face as an idea came to him. He pulled a copy of his first chemistry textbook from the back of his memory, mentally running a finger down the familiar spine. He knew it was an unusual choice for comfort reading, but this was the book that had kindled his interest in scientific discovery. His mother had given it to him as a young child, and perusing the pages never failed to ease his frantic mind.

He had almost finished the book when something outside his head drew his attention. A quick flutter of his eyelashes was all it took to bring his focus back. A frown settled over his face as he realized what had drawn his attention. The building around him was no longer quiet. A door slammed somewhere else in the building, the noise echoing down the long hallways. From the other side of the door, he could also hear raised voices that were locked in what sounded like what he thought might be a heated argument. Sherlock took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves; there was no doubt his tormentors had returned to continue their interrogation. The conversation ended rather abruptly when the voices were directly outside the door. For a second, the only sound he could hear was a key being inserted into the lock.

The light bulb turned on just as the door started to swing open, blinding Sherlock temporarily. He squinted against the light, trying to focus on the silhouettes of Dimitri and Vasily as they stood framed in the doorway. As he blinked furiously, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden influx of light, Sherlock froze momentarily as his nose picked up a new aroma that started to mingle with the musky damp smell in the basement. It took him a second to recognize the smell as sausage, but once he did, a low rumbling growl emanated from his stomach, echoing embarrassingly around the room. Sherlock closed his eyes, resigned, as he heard Vasily chuckle darkly from the doorway.

Sherlock jerked his eyes back open quickly, since it wasn’t smart to purposefully shut out the other men for long. He tried his best to block out the smell of the food and the hunger pains it had awakened while he focused on the two men, who were still standing in the doorway. Vasily was holding a large plate of food while Dimitri stood at his side, his arms clearly holding something that Sherlock could see. Judging by the position of his shoulders, not to mention the water droplets that were hitting the floor between his feet, it was quite obviously a bucket of water.

“Well, since you are obviously already awake, I guess we won’t need the alarm clock,” Vasily announced wryly as Dimitri turned and set the black, plastic bucket down out in the hallway. Sherlock didn’t respond, choosing to stay in the corner and wait. The silence stretched for a few minutes as the men eyed each other, the smell of the food growing stronger the whole time. Eventually, Vasily shook his head and moved towards the chair that was indeed still in the centre of the room. Sherlock stole a quick glance at the plate as he put it down on the chair seat, and had to swallow back a hungry moan. In addition to the sausage, there were roasted vegetables and golden dinner rolls.

“The food looks good, yes?” Vasily asked tauntingly, having moved a few steps back towards the door. “It’s been almost a full day since you last ate.” Sherlock bit back a smirk as he stored that bit of information away – any indication of how long he had been in this basement could be useful.

“The deal is simple, my slippery friend,” Vasily continued. “Tell us something of your story and we’ll leave you to enjoy the food in peace.” Sherlock just sat there, head resting against the wall, doing his best to look bored and uninterested. The silence stretched on as the three men stared at each other, none of them wanting to be the first to yield.

Suddenly, Dimitri stalked across the room and backhanded Sherlock across the cheek. He bit the side of his cheek again and felt the wound from the last beating reopen. Blood spilled across his tongue and he had to swallow quickly to keep from choking on it.

“Why do you insist on doing this the hard way?” Vasily asked from the doorway. “You could save yourself so much pain if you just told us the truth.” Sherlock spat blood onto the floor, trying his best to miss the mattress.

“I have told you the truth,” he insisted in a low, steady voice. “I’m just a mechanic from Odessa. I’m no one special.”

“Well,” Vasily interrupted, “you finally said one thing that was correct. You certainly are no one special.” Sherlock could see the anger rising in his eyes. After another tense minute, Vasily stormed over to the chair and grabbed the plate. Without another word, he hurled it out the door and down the hallway. Sherlock jumped slightly at the sound of porcelain shattering. Before the noise of the plate breaking had faded, Vasily had charged towards him and yanked him up by his left arm.

Sherlock was dragged towards the other end of the room; as they approached, Dimitri slipped a thick rope through a hook in the ceiling that he had overlooked so far. A quick glance around the room didn’t reveal any more surprises, but he wasn’t sure that it was much of a relief. His arms were cuffed in front of him and then looped loosely though the hook; the muscles in his shoulders immediately started to protest.

He stared at the wall in front of him, trying to keep his focus on what was happening in the room, not in his body. His track bottoms hung low on his hips, leaving plenty of bare torso exposed to whatever the two men were planning. Fortunately, he was still able to stand on his flat feet; there was more than enough to worry about without adding positional asphyxiation to this list. Off to his right side, his eyes caught on Vasily as he pulled his belt off; a shiver of fear ran up Sherlock’s spine that he was unable to hide. Vasily doubled the thick, black leather, and cracked it threateningly against his palm.

“Consider this your final chance to talk.” Sherlock just stood there with his mouth firmly shut. With a sigh that didn't mask the anticipation in his eyes, Vasily moved behind him and Sherlock was unable to keep from tensing up.

A brief whoosh was the only warning he got before the stiff belt cracked against his ribs. He swung by his arms, the weight of his body pulling on his wrists and exacerbating the pain in his ribs. Over the next few minutes, blow after blow fell against his back. He could feel the stinging welts that were being raised with every new stroke, the blows falling rapidly across the plane of his back.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to keep his body as still as possible to keep from straining his ribs. He supposed he should count himself fortunate right now. The belt was a fairly primitive interrogation implement; it made a lot of noise with each stroke across his back, but it didn't pack the wallop that a whip or cane would. He was also somewhat baffled that Vasily was solely focused on his back; thanks to last night’s beating, his front was in much worse condition. His back had been largely spared up to this point.

Nevertheless, he was still relieved when Vasily, panting heavily from exertion, stepped back a few minutes later and then moved to stand in front of Sherlock again. His face was red, sweat dripping slightly from his brow - but Sherlock didn't miss the look of disappointment that flicked over his face when he saw that Sherlock’s resolve hadn’t been broken.

"What are you protecting?" he shouted at Sherlock, standing so close their noses were almost touching. "What's so important that you would turn down your first meal in over a day? Your secret must be very important, if you are unwilling to surrender it even when your life is on the line!" Sherlock watched him work himself into a frenzy, spittle gathering at the corner of his mouth as he berated Sherlock.

"I am hiding nothing," he replied, his words barely audible as he fought to keep his voice steady. His quiet answer only seemed to enrage Vasily even more. "I have no secrets you would find interesting."

"So you do have secrets? What wouldn't you want to tell us?"

"Everyone has secrets," Sherlock began, hoping to use Vasily's distraction to give himself more time before the next beating started. "I cheated on a maths test at school," he invented. “I cheated on a girlfriend once too...“ A fist slammed into the side of his head yet again; Sherlock was beginning to think that this was Dimitri’s favourite way of stopping him talking.

"Stop wasting our time," Dimitri growled from directly behind him; Sherlock mentally cursed for allowing himself to become so involved with baiting Vasily that he forgot about the other occupant of the room. Sherlock felt his hand close on the rope seconds before his wrists were jerked violently upwards, putting a great deal more strain on his shoulders and torso. His toes barely dragged on the floor now; he was in much more danger now than he had been a minute ago.

Sherlock hung there, doing his best to keep himself calm and control his breathing. He felt the two men back away from him, and Sherlock grew afraid that they were going to leave him like this. Sure enough, he heard the sound of the door opening when the men reached the other side of the room. A glance over his shoulder showed both men lingering in the doorway, surveying him with obvious pleasure.

“Why don’t you take a few minutes to think about your options?” Vasily said. “If you don’t want a great deal of pain, I suggest you reconsider.” The door slammed shut again, and Sherlock held his breath, hoping they would leave the light on this time. A few minutes passed before Sherlock let himself relax. For whatever reason, they had decided to leave the light on and Sherlock was grateful for small kindnesses.

Sherlock knew that, at best, he had about an hour before he would be in serious trouble; he was already feeling a little short of breath. But no matter how many times they threatened to kill him, there was no way he could consider changing his story. Telling the truth was absolutely out of the question and while he could switch to a different lie, it would only be postponing the inevitable.

As he hung there, Sherlock decided to take the opportunity to do a complete visual study of his room, since Vasily had been kind enough to leave the light on. He considered it his one stroke of luck that the restraints were tied in a way that allowed him a little freedom of movement; it wouldn’t be too much of a strain to turn around. The wall in front of him was painfully bland. There were no signs of anything hidden or clues to what the room had been used for before it was his prison. The hook he was suspended from didn’t appear to be a new addition – it had been painted over a t least once.

The cabinet to his right was almost completely nondescript. The grey metal doors were dinged in a few places and the hinges showed a few signs of rust, no doubt a result from the dampness in the basement. The one inconsistent element of the cabinet was that lock holding the doors closed looked new; he wondered idly what had caused it be replaced before shrugging the question off a second later. Not only was there insufficient data to speculate with, but the reason for the lock’s replacement was completely inconsequential. He needed to study the rest of the room before the others returned.

Over the next few minutes, he completed his visual survey of the room, but it didn’t reveal anything else that he had overlooked. When he was once again facing the wall directly in front of him, Sherlock took a minute to gauge his breathing. He could tell that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen with each breath, but he didn’t feel like he was in imminent danger of passing out just yet.

Fortunately, footsteps sounded in the hallway outside fairly quickly after Sherlock was finished with his inspection. Sherlock tied to brace himself before they returned, doing his best to steady his body even though he was balanced on his toes. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder as the door clicked open and Dimitri and Vasily stepped back inside.

“Well,” Dimitri demanded, the now-familiar scowl plastered across his face. Sherlock wondered vaguely what Dmitri would look like with a smile. A second later, he gave himself a mental slap; that kind of speculation was not only completely pointless, it was downright dangerous in a situation like this. “Are you going to tell us what we want to know?”

“I don’t know what you want to hear. I haven’t lied. I don’t know who you think I am.” Sherlock hid a wince; he might not be feeling short of breath, but his voice was definitely weaker than it had been when he had first been hung up by the wrists.

Dimitri’s response was only surprising in that his brick-like fist slammed into Sherlock’s side instead of his head. Sherlock sucked in a breath as Dimitri managed to hit one of the areas that Vasily had favoured last time. It made Sherlock swing slightly by the wrists, his feet skidding across the ground again as he fought to regain his footing. While he tried, however, Vasily decided to join in the fun. Blow after blow landed on his chest and sides and it took all of Sherlock’s concentration to keep from screaming as the pain in his grew with every subsequent blow. More than once, a set of knuckles caught the edges of one of the cuts from the last beating and Sherlock felt blood start to trickle down his chest in a few places.

He was dangerously lightheaded and having serious trouble breathing by the time the two men stepped away from him. He couldn’t see what either man was doing; they had both stepped behind him and Sherlock didn’t think his ribs would appreciate it if he tried to twist around to look behind him right now. So he just hung there, trying to tune out the sound of his breathing and focus on the movements of the other men in the room. He was terrified that they were going to leave him like this. If they walked out of the room without letting him down, Sherlock was sure he would be dead before they came back.

“Well,” Vasily drawled as he moved to face Sherlock, once more standing uncomfortably close. “I hope you realize just how serious your situation is. There’s no one here to stop us from leaving you like this and locking the door. You’re having trouble breathing – it wouldn’t be long before you passed out and suffocated.” They stared at each other for a minute, Sherlock refusing to blink or look panicky solely as a matter of pride. He would be damned if he let this petty, vicious man see how much pain he was in.

The staring contest ended abruptly when Dimitri, whom Sherlock had lost track of yet again due to his ongoing battle of wills with Vasily, unexpectedly released the tension on the rope. Sherlock went crashing to the floor, his legs unable to hold his weight and this time, he couldn’t keep his scream of pain behind his lips as his whole body exploded in pain. Above him, he heard laughter ring around the room as the two men finally moved towards the door.

“We’re giving you one more chance to reconsider,” Vasily announced from the doorway. “If you insist on continuing to lie, we’ll have to move to less pleasant methods of making you talk.”

With that, the door slammed shut and the light clicked off. Sherlock didn’t know how long he lay where he had fallen as he struggled to master the pain. Finally, the pain had subsided enough for him to attempt to move. He didn’t try to stand just yet; instead, he started inching his way towards the cabinet. Feeling around the base, he breathed a sigh of relief when he found what he was looking for. When he had been studying the room earlier, he had noticed that one of the dinner rolls had fallen off the plate when Vasily had thrown it from the room.

Sherlock sat there, leaning against the wall, while he slowly ate the roll. It wasn’t much, but it helped steady his reeling head a bit. Once he was finished, Sherlock stayed where he was, his head leaning against the corner formed by the cabinet and the wall. He didn’t want to try to move again just yet, in case the pain’s return caused him to vomit.

He sat there, reciting the periodic table over and over again to distract himself while he waited for the roll to settle in his stomach. Finally, after his fifth trip through the table, he finally pushed himself gingerly to his feet. His head swam, but fortunately, the pain didn’t overwhelm him. He staggered towards the mattress, cursing each jarring step made lead to yet another burst of pain in his ribs. It was exponentially worse now than it had been before the beating; Sherlock suspected that at least one of those bruised ribs had been broken.

His stomach rolled and pitched as he collapsed on top of the mattress. He lay there, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as he waited for the world to stop spinning. Eventually, his world stabilized and he was able to drift into a light doze. As he fell asleep, Sherlock found himself considering just how much longer he'd be able to survive in these two men's custody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, only three-ish weeks between chapters this time - that's a bit better I think. Hopefully I'll be able to speed things up even more now that I'm getting back into the habit of writing. As always, comments/corrections/questions are certainly welcome! 
> 
> I forgot to mention last chapter, but the building where Sherlock is being held is a real building in southwestern Russia (check Google Maps south of Fanagoriyskoye if you're curious about what the compound looks like). I have no idea what the actual function of the building is, obviously, so any similarities are purely coincidental. (I had half a thought to use Putin's Palace on the coast of the Black Sea, but the geography didn't end up working quite right.)
> 
> I'm trying to be more active on my writing tumblr (http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/) in case anyone is interested. Feel free to ask anything about this story (or anything else I've written, or just questions in general). If it's overly spoilery, I'll keep the reply private (or if you ask that I not publish). I'm starting to write the occasional drabble as well, which will be posted there first. Once I get several written, I'll cross post them over here too.


	30. Chapter 30

**March 4**

For most of his life, Mycroft held nothing but contempt for people who needed to broadcast their emotional state to everyone in their vicinity. He prided himself on his ability to appear calm and collected no matter the difficulty of the situation or his emotional state at the time. Even when mired in negotiations where one wrong word could set off a cataclysmic chain of events, he focused all his energies into appearing collected while he worked furiously to solve each particular crisis. In his experience, a man’s ability to seem calm in the middle of a storm was a greater factor in successful diplomacy than having all the answers to the problem.

Sherlock’s outbursts whenever he was bored or frustrated had always been a particularly potent irritant for Mycroft. During their youth, he had tried numerous times to teach his brother emotional control; those attempts had all backfired spectacularly. Sherlock’s outbursts had grown more extreme after every attempt. Necessity and discouragement meant that he abandoned any hope of teaching Sherlock better coping methods when he left for University. Lack of direct contact and distance helped him absolve himself of any liability in his brother’s stunted emotional growth. It was only in the last few years that he had been able to view Sherlock’s outbursts with anything other than profound embarrassment.

But for the first time in his memory, Mycroft understood the urge that caused those outbursts that he had so often criticized Sherlock for indulging. It was almost impossible to suppress the need to lash out at those around him or pace around the perimeter of his favourite study at the Diogenes Club. He had been here for several hours now, attempting to focus on several reports about the potential for the rise of social extremism in Britain that he needed to have read for an upcoming briefing. But they were still stacked neatly on the corner of the desk, unread and undisturbed. He just couldn’t concentrate on them with all the stress and fears that were swirling inside his mind about his brother's situation.

Four days. It had been four interminable days since he had received the news that Sherlock had been captured. Four long days with only the barest hints about his brother's whereabouts or condition. The last time anyone had seen him had been more than forty-eight hours ago, when he had been lead from the Sevastopol jail and shoved into the back of a white unmarked van. A short time later, the van had been spotted boarding the ferry that crossed the Strait of Kerch. That was the last anyone had seen of the van; none of their contacts in Russia had reported seeing the it once it had left the ferry. The only positive news in the report was that Sherlock had looked in decent shape, the hints of a few bruises but no evidence of more serious injuries.

In an attempt to stave off the helpless feeling swirling in his stomach, Mycroft had spent the every available second over the last few days attempting to finalize a rescue plan. So far, he had formulated two tentative plans but they were flawed with frustratingly low probabilities of success. He was handcuffed by major gaps in the available intelligence and the fact that he lacked the official authority to pull resources for this mission. He hadn’t heard from Lady Smallwood since their conversation two days ago, which only increased his sense of unease. There were several favours he could call in to speed things along, but until the situation was clearer, he didn’t want to risk jeopardizing what little support he currently had.

For now, however, there wasn’t anything else he could do, at least until he knew if this was going to be an official rescue mission or an unofficial one. He was well and truly hemmed in at this juncture, forced to wait for other people to make decisions. He supposed it was only fitting, considering the last time he had felt this trapped by the actions of others had been on Christmas Day, as he had sat in that helicopter and watched helplessly as his brother had pulled John Watson's gun.

He sighed, regretting somewhat his decision to hand the matter of his brother's future over to Lady Smallwood; he knew that it had been the best choice for success, but it meant he could do little other than formulate vague plans and wait for her to report back on her success or failure. He didn't even dare demand an update, in case some of his more spiteful colleagues took exception to what they would consider his meddling in the negotiations.

All this inaction was especially grating because every instinct he possessed was screaming that he was running out of time. Sherlock was in the custody of people who suspected he was hiding something important and a track record of increasing brutality when they wanted to extract those secrets. Reports detailing their methods were rife with techniques that had been banned by most other intelligence agencies. Since Sherlock knew their tendencies and didn’t think there was any possibility of rescue coming, he had no reason to try to prolong his capture. Mycroft’s time frame to act was desperately thin and every hour he was forced to wait felt like it could be the where he ran out of time.

Mycroft sighed and pushed himself up from the desk. Sitting here, thinking of all the various no-win scenarios standing between him and his brother’s safety was doing him absolutely no good. He moved to stand in front of the window, staring through the sheer curtains to the busy street in front of the club. As the unremarkable cars passed by on the street below, he tried to reign his thoughts back in. Speculation and regret without action were completely pointless; on their own, they could do nothing to improve his brother’s prospects and would only increase his unease.

Just as he was turning back towards the desk to make yet another attempt at reading those accursed memos, a familiar-looking car pulled up alongside the curb in front of the club. Mycroft tensed as he recognized the pale head of Lady Smallwood emerge from the rear of the car as soon as the doorman opened the door. Once she was standing on the pavement, Lady Smallwood turned suddenly and shot a glance up at his window. They made eye contact, and Mycroft stiffened slightly; she had obviously come here to see him, but what news did she bring? A quick glance down at his mobile brought a frown to his face; there were no messages from his assistant tell him she was coming. Why would she arrive here without checking to make sure he was available?

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to speculate. Bare minutes passed before a knock at the door announced her arrival. Mycroft studied her as she entered the room, followed closely by a steward with a tea tray. Her only obvious sign of stress were the faint circles under her eyes; apparently, she had been working long hours since their last meeting. A niggling voice in the back of his head pointed out that she might not have been working on his brother’s situation, but he shook aside the speculation for now.

“What can I do for you today, Lady Smallwood?” he asked as he gestured her to take one of the chairs in the room. It was a strain to keep from demanding answers before she had even taken her seat. “My assistant didn’t inform me you were stopping by,” he continued, hoping to prompt her into revealing her purpose as quickly as possible.

“I apologize for bursting in on you, Mycroft,” she replied with a genuine note of apology evident in her voice. “There have been developments that I needed to inform you of as soon as possible, so I took the chance that you would be here.”

Mycroft held his silence as he watched her sink into the chair and close her eyes for a second. He found he had to restrain from drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair while she collected herself. Fortunately, less than a minute later, she opened her eyes and pierced Mycroft with a particularly sharp stare and took a deep breath before she began speaking.

“As I’m sure you are aware, I have spent most of the last few days meeting with a variety of our colleagues regarding the apparent resurrection of James Moriarty,” she began. Mycroft hid a frown as she realized she was speaking more formally than she normally did during their private meetings. Was she being guarded for a reason?

“I’m afraid that not everyone is convinced that he did indeed survive the rooftop confrontation two years ago,” she continued with an audible sigh. “While they accept that your DNA evidence is convincing, it wasn’t deemed to be incontrovertible. Several people argued that the bodies could have been switched on the rooftop by a criminal associate to complicate any future identification.” Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, ready to interject, but Lady Smallwood raised a hand to stay his protest.

“I know it’s unlikely,” she continued as Mycroft forced himself to remain quiet, “but it wouldn’t be the strangest twist in the story of our dealings with Moriarty.” Mycroft nodded, only too familiar with just how complicated their history with the Criminal Mastermind really was.

“What does this mean for Sherlock?” he asked, the rising anxiety in his chest causing him to speak more plainly than normal. He couldn’t afford to wait indefinitely while the government dithered with pointless speculation. If his colleagues had decided against him, he needed to know as soon as possible.

“A tentative decision has been reached,” she replied quietly, causing Mycroft to lean forward in his chair, fingers clenched tightly around the upholstered arms. “While there are people who aren’t convinced that he is indeed alive, everyone recognizes the havoc the spectre of James Moriarty could unleash upon the country. Even if a subordinate is assuming the man’s mantle and organization, all of our colleagues agree that we must be prepared to deal with it as soon as possible.”

Mycroft leaned forward even more, hardly daring to believe what she was saying. Could this be it, the official blessing he had been hoping for? He didn’t think Lady Smallwood devious enough to raise his hopes like this only to dash them immediately, but it took every last molecule of his famed restraint to keep from interrupting at this point.

“We have agreed,” she continued, her dark blue eyes staring straight at him now, “that it would be in England’s best interest if Sherlock Holmes is returned to her shores so he might lend his singular expertise to this looming problem.” A small smile crept over her pale face as she watched Mycroft collapse backwards into his chair.

“My great thanks, Elizabeth,” Mycroft responded finally over a full minute later, his voice barely audible as he struggled to comprehend what this meant.

“Not all of the details have been arranged yet,” she cautioned in response. “The people who were close associates of Charles Magnussen are slightly less agreeable about Sherlock’s return and it may come to pass that he faces some additional punishment upon his return. For now, though, I felt it best to leave those details until after your brother has been rescued.”

She paused here to take a few sips of her tea, which helped Mycroft tamp down the sense of relief that was making his limbs feel shaky and his heart flutter. He had been trapped behind the seemingly immoveable barrier of Sherlock’s punishment for so long, it was almost inconceivable to him that it had finally been lifted.

“I appreciate all your hard work in this matter,’ he said finally, taking a sip of his own tea. The cup shook in his hand slightly, betraying the tremors that were still coursing throughout his body.

“Have you heard anything new about Sherlock’s situation and do you have a plan in mind?” Mycroft took a deep breath, grateful for the opening to shift his attention away from his emotional response to the facts of the situation at hand.

“The only new information is that a contact saw his removal from Sevastopol prison approximately forty eight hours ago. He was loaded into a van that crossed the Strait of Kerch and vanished from our surveillance. As far as plans, I’m afraid I don’t have a finalized one yet. I’ve been able to develop several contingency plans over the last few days, but before I can make a final decision, I need more information. My first stop is Odessa, where I will meet up with Maks Lysenko and Ivan Novik to find out what their various agencies have learned.” There was a pause in the conversation here as Lady Smallwood gave him an unusually searching look.

“Are you planning on heading up the mission yourself?” she asked, her voice tinged with shock. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction; after all, Mycroft’s loathing of field work was not a secret inside their circle.

“There is no one else I trust to find my brother,” he replied flatly. “I am planning on taking a small tactical force with me when I depart, but we will be relying mostly on Lysenko’s intelligence and contacts inside Russia.”

“I wish you all success in this mission, Mycroft,” she replied as she rose from her chair and shook his hand. “I know I mentioned it before, but I feel responsible for the predicament your brother is in, and I’m glad I was able to play even a small part in bringing him home.” Just as she reached the door, she stopped, looking back over her shoulder at Mycroft. “Please be careful on your trip, and be sure to fill me in on all the details when you arrive back in London.”

With that, she opened the door and headed back into the corridor outside the study. Mycroft waived away the usher who asked if he needed anything before pulling the door closed behind her. Left alone once more, Mycroft sank back into his chair, aware that his hands were still shaking in his relief. Obtaining approval from his colleagues had always been the element of his various schemes that he had been least confident of achieving. While he knew each of them well, including the specific arguments that were most effective against them, by necessity he hadn't been in the room to read the mood and make the best arguments. Leaving the most important part of the negotiations in Lady Smallwood's hands had been nerve-wracking.

A glance at his mobile showed that it was now approaching early evening. As much as he wished to, Mycroft couldn't just depart immediately; there were contingency plans to arrange and a few other administrative details needed to be seen to before he could leave for the airport. Mycroft sent a text message to Anthea, summoning her to the club as he withdrew a folder from the secret compart of his attaché case. The checklist that needed to be accomplished before he could leave was immense and come hell or high water, Mycroft intended to be in Odessa by dawn.

\----

The sitting room in 221B Baker Street was lit only by the glow of the street lights outside the windows. John had grown used to living in the semi-darkness; he wasn’t even sure the last time he had bothered to switch on a lamp. But the stillness in the flat felt somehow different the last few nights than in the weeks since he had moved back. John sighed, shifting slightly in his chair. The catalyst for the change was easy enough to deduce, even for someone wasn’t a Holmes; it all had started two nights ago when Mycroft and Greg had stopped by. That brief conversation felt like the first genuine connection he had made with the world outside his grief since his mad dash to hospital weeks ago now.

Oh, he knew better than to think he was finally turned a corner. The weight of his grief still crushed his chest more often than not, but it felt just a little bit lighter than it had before Mycroft shoved his way inside the other night. While nothing could bring his wife and daughter back, the idea that there was even a slim chance that Sherlock wasn’t lost to him forever now was a flicker of hope he had seized on with all his strength. It was still all his fault, but maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to atone for one of his biggest failings.

The sound of a knock on the door downstairs sounded closer to a gunshot in the quiet building. John frowned as he looked at the clock; it was after midnight – who would come calling so late? No sooner had the thought formed, however, before John was pulling himself out of the chair and heading for the stairs. There was only one person who would call at this hour. Sure enough, when he pulled the door open, he was staring up at the washed-out face of Mycroft Holmes.

“Ah, Doctor Watson,” he said, the gravelly edge to his voice a huge contrast to his normally smooth tones. “I’m glad you are still awake. May I come in?” John moved backwards, shutting the door behind Mycroft and turning to face him.

“It’s time, John,” he said finally, staring directly into John’s face as he waited for his words to register.

“Time for what, Mycroft?” John asked, his slightly-sluggish brain struggling to make sense of the other man’s pronouncement. Mycroft heaved a sigh, no doubt irked by the fact that John hadn’t immediately understood what he was talking about.

“I received official approval a few hours ago to bring Sherlock home,” he replied in a low, tense voice. “I’m leaving in less than an hour. If you want to come with…” he trailed off as John turned from the door and dashed up the stars. Running felt strange after weeks of barely moving, but John felt like a man possessed. He grabbed his mobile and jacket, looking around the rest of the flat. There was nothing else he needed to bring with; no doubt, Mycroft would provide him with the proper gear and weaponry once they were on their way. A brief pang of regret for the loss of his Sig crossed his chest before he batted it away. He didn’t have time to waste on regret right now.

A minute later, he was charging back down the stairs. The racket had obviously woken Mrs. Hudson, who was standing next to Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in her dressing gown. She looked very worried as she watched him approach; no doubt, Mycroft had filled her in on the developments. As soon as he reached the bottom, she wrapped him in a tight hug. Even through his coat, John could feel her shaking slightly.

“Be careful, John,” she whispered as she kissed his cheek. “Bring him home, but take care of yourself as well.” John didn’t reply; he couldn’t force the words past the lump in his throat. He kissed her cheek before letting go. John turned away and met Mycroft’s eye. They looked at each other for a minute before Mycroft opened the door and headed to the car. As he stepped out onto the street for the first time since the funeral, John felt more alive than he had since Christmas. It was finally time for him to repay Sherlock for the sacrifice he made on that patio at Appledore.

Thirty minutes later, the same jet that had carried Sherlock away on New Year’s Day took off from the same airfield, this time to bring him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It feels like we're finally getting down to the part of the story that I had originally imagined when I started writing. It was such a simple concept at the start..... Right now, it looks like 7 more chapters plus an Epilogue left. 
> 
> Comments and feedback are always welcome. I've been drinking tonight, so I'll give the chapter another read through in the morning to make sure there aren't any glaring mistakes. (Please feel free to point any errors out to me in the meantime.)


	31. Chapter 31

**March 5**

It was an hour past dawn when the plane made its final approach to the tiny military airfield somewhere north of Odessa. As he surveyed the scene out the window, Mycroft made himself unclench his fists and hold onto the armrests on his leather captain chair. He found it difficult to believe that he had finally arrived at this juncture. He had spent the last two months working almost continuously to get to the point where he had clearance to bring his brother back home where he belonged. In all of his plans, though, he had thought he would have more time to finalize the rescue plan; neither he nor his agents had foreseen Putin’s dramatic escalation of the Ukrainian crisis in the days following the closing of the Olympic Games.

Just as the plane began its descent, they hit a pocket of turbulence, which made the whole plane shake slightly. Mycroft heard John Watson stir in his seat in the row behind him, groaning slightly as the change in altitude combined with the sudden jarring pulled him out of the doze he had fallen into a few hours ago. A glance over his shoulder showed that John was indeed starting to wake up. Mycroft quickly glanced over the other man as he stared out the window. A slight frown crossed his face as he evaluated John out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft would only admit to himself that he was greatly worried about Sherlock’s best friend, who looked like he had barely eaten or slept in the last few weeks. Mycroft assumed some of this decline was a natural result of the grieving process, but still, they were about to embark on a very dangerous mission. He could only hope that the former military man wasn’t as fragile as he appeared.

The plane touched down with only the slightest of bumps and Mycroft took a few deep breaths as it began to coast to a stop. This was it, he told himself; the time for planning was almost over. He frowned as he stared out the window, searching for signs of life, but there didn’t appear to be anyone here to greet them. He had left messages with Maks Lysenko and Ivan Nikov letting them know of his plans and requesting a briefing upon his arrival. If those messages hadn’t been delivered (or were ignored), then it would complicate things greatly.

Before he could start to be seriously concerned, however, the plane coasted to a stop near a warehouse-looking building that stood isolated at the end of the runway. Mycroft scanned the outside of the small metal building, his gaze finally catching on a sliver of light on one side that appeared to indicate an open doorway. Once the plane had come to a complete stop and one of the two soldiers that had joined them on this mission opened the door and lowered the stairwell, Mycroft caught sight of someone emerging from the building and he breathed a sigh of relief. The man began to approach the plane as Mycroft started to descend the stairs and the man’s face finally became visible.

“Good morning, Maks,” he greeted the other man once he reached the bottom of the stairs. The Ukrainian agent took his hand in a firm handshake. It was a bit disconcerting when Mycroft realized that this was their first face-to-face meeting. Maks’ work with Sherlock, both now and two years ago, made Mycroft feel like he knew the other man well. Maks looked over Mycroft’s shoulder, frowning slightly, and Mycroft stepped to the side so Maks could see John properly.

“Let me introduce Doctor John Watson,” he said, gesturing towards the doctor who had been hovering awkwardly in his shadow. “John, this is Maks Lysenko, the agent whom Sherlock has been working with.”

Mycroft forced himself to stand still while the two men exchanged banal pleasantries. If there was one thing that he had learned over the years of dealing with John Watson, it was that attempting to rush him through the social niceties always ended disastrously. Fortunately, less than a minute later, Maks turned back to Mycroft and gestured for them to head back inside the small warehouse.

Once they were inside the building, Mycroft paused to survey the scene in front of him. He barely refrained from rolling his eyes as a scene from any old spy movie greeted him. A single light fixture hung down from the ceiling over a long table that had been laced in the middle of the room. The tabletop was covered in papers, while several men bent over various parts of the surface. The other three people in the room had stopped what they had been discussing to look at the new arrivals.

\----

Maks stood to the side of the door and watched as Mycroft took stock of the situation in a single glance. There was no question that this man as Sherlock Holmes’ brother. His dress and manner was everything that Sherlock had ever described (official, stiff to within an inch of his life, irritatingly perceptive of everything around him). Every gesture and mannerism that Mycroft was using to evaluate the other men in the room were the same tools that he had seen Sherlock use time after time.

But while Mycroft Holmes was everything that Maks had expected, he had been thrown by the appearance of John Watson. Maks knew something of the story, of course; the bare details of the history between the former army doctor and Sherlock had been included in Mycroft’s initial brief that he had received two months ago before Sherlock had arrived in Belarus. He also had followed some of Sherlock’s adventures once he had returned to England via John’s blog, while Sherlock himself had filled in a few more details over the last few months. According to the stories he had heard several times since early January, this man’s wife should have given birth within the last month. 

So why was Doctor Watson here now? If Sherlock had been correct, and Maks knew just how ridiculous that statement really was, John should be back in England caring for the daughter and wife that Sherlock had been willing to sacrifice so much to keep safe. What could have happened to drag the man away from his child? Unfortunately Maks was fairly certain he knew the answer. There was a sadness deep in the other man’s eyes that told the story - a bone deep grief that looked like it would have knocked a lesser man to his knees. But Maks could see just a hint of what attracted Sherlock to the man in his posture there on the runway; there was just a hint of a man who voluntarily chose to run with Sherlock Holmes and Maks found himself hoping there might be time to get to know John better before the end of the mission.

With a bit of a start, Maks dragged his thoughts off the man who was lingering in the shadows of the building and back to the room at large. He had to bite back a sigh as he noticed the tension that was brewing between Mycroft and Ivan Nikov. Maks’ supervisor had arrived here in Odessa only a few hours ago and had been blustering about the futility of this whole mission ever since. Now, it was obvious that Nikov was intimidated by the Englishman, but he was doing a very poor job of hiding it. Maks swore he could see Nikov’s chest inflating as he stood there (and he wouldn’t have been surprised if Nikov wasn’t lining up every possible excuse for any criticisms that were to come).

“Mycroft, let me introduce the head of Belarus’ intelligence department, Mr. Ivan Nikov,” Maks said to break the stalemate, moving to stand at the vacant end of the table. “Ivan, this is Mycroft Holmes and Doctor John Watson.” He pointed at each man in turn and barely refrained from rolling his eyes as Nikov just jerked his head at each of them. How had the man risen to his senior position in intelligence without a better poker face? A quick glance at Mycroft showed nothing but a mildly attentive expression, so Maks figured he should just start the briefing.

“Since I got your message, Mycroft, I’ve been working to get in contact with as many of my contacts in southwestern Russia as possible,’ he announced, pointing to a large map on one of the table; a small red dot marked every city where one of his contacts was located. There wasn’t a contact in every city, but he had a well-spaced net of trusted contacts.

“Here’s what we know for certain,” Maks continued, determined to keep the briefing as civil as possible. “Sherlock was removed from Crimea just over two-and-a-half days ago. My main contact on the peninsula was outside the jail watching as Sherlock was loaded into the plain white van and driven southeast of the city, towards the Strait.” He pointed to the blue line on the map that marked out what they knew of Sherlock's route back into mainland Russia.

“Three of my contacts have reported seeing the van in the hours since it left Crimea. They are fairly close together on the Russian side of the border, it’s true, but it’s enough detail to say we’re looking in the right direction. The good news is that the van was headed towards Krasnodar, which implies that they have decided to keep Sherlock locally for now. The other option for his continuing interrogation would have been Moscow, but they likely would have headed straight east out of Ilyich if that were the case. It’s fortunate for us, because if they had decided to take him to Moscow, that would have made rescuing him much harder.” Maks paused, his eyes roaming around the map for a moment.

“It’s a fairly safe bet to say that they don’t know who Sherlock is or what he’s doing in this area,” Maks continued after a moment as he considered the various markings on the map.

“Why do you say that?” Mycroft interrupted, leaning over the table, his eyes combing the area around Krasnodar, no doubt searching for the information that gave Maks that idea.

“If they knew they had captured an undercover English agent, Putin would have been informed instantly and most likely Sherlock would have been flown straight to Moscow,” Maks answered simply. “There’s no way the President would have resisted the temptation to shove a camera in Sherlock’s face and use it as propaganda coup. He’s been saying for years that the west - England and America in particular - have been trying to undermine him to topple his government. Sherlock would have been treated like Exhibit A to advance that agenda.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully as he pondered Maks’ response. “Very possible,” came the eventual reply - and Maks was sure he could hear a faint note of relief that Mycroft had failed to hide. Understandable, since he was probably desperate for proper news of his brother, but it was still slightly surprising to realize just how close to the surface the other man’s emotions were. “Please continue.”

“The last contact to see them was here,” he said, pointing to a semi-remote area west of Krasnodar. “They passed through a small gas station around midnight.” Maks frowned a bit, considering the path a bit more. “Unfortunately, this location seems to rule out many of the known intelligence facilities in the region. The main centers are spread between Krasnodar and Rostov, so unless they are deliberately trying to confuse anyone watching, we can fairly confidently rule out those places.” Maks frowned as he leant over the map, searching for a likely destination. Unfortunately, he really didn’t have any ideas about where they had been taking Sherlock.

Just then, his mobile buzzed in his pocket and Maks frowned down at the screen. “Excuse me,” he said, recognizing the number as he stepped towards the door. “I have to take this.”

\----

As Maks left the room, Mycroft focused on the map, comparing Maks’ comments to the information he had read in the plethora of security briefings that had crossed his desk in the last few months. On the other side of the table, Ivan Nikov and his assistants began a whispered conversation which appeared to border on hostile at times. Mycroft studied them covertly for a moment before tuning it out and refocusing on the map. He had met many people like Ivan Nikov in the course of his government career – overly concerned with their reputation and unwilling to consider any information that didn’t fit their preconceived theories, even when proven wrong.

As he looked at the wealth of details spread out on the map, Mycroft had to admit that he was impressed by Maks’ thoroughness. He was obviously decently intelligent and had a deep understanding of the Russian political and intelligence landscape, particularly in this part of the country. Mycroft wondered idly if he could convince his colleagues in MI6 to employ Maks directly before giving himself a mental shake. Idle speculation about the future employment of an Ukrainian agent was beyond pointless – the most important object was determining Sherlock’s location and finding a way to rescue him.

As he studied the map, Mycroft frowned in concern. His knowledge of the region was obviously inferior compared to Maks’, but that didn’t mean he failed to recognize the location of one of the key political stories of the last few years. A few hundred miles south of the Strait of Ilyich, near the resort town of Gelendzhik, was on the controversial palace on the cliffs overlooking the Black Sea that Putin was rumored to have built for himself. Mycroft put his finger on the palace’s location on the map as he considered the possibilities. According to intelligence reports, it had been built with money skimmed from almost every slush fund that Putin had created during his tenure as president. Would the man be indiscreet enough to use this symbol of his wealth, power and corruption as an interrogation center for the FSB? Without even pausing to think, Mycroft knew the answer to that question was yes.

“It’s a good thought,” Maks’ voice sounded from over his shoulder, “but we’re fairly certain that palace isn’t where Sherlock is being held. It might suit Putin’s image, but I think it’s too high-profile a location for them to interrogate suspected foreign agents. After all, it’s the one place in the area that every foreign government knows is directly connected to the President.” Mycroft grimaced slightly as he stood up and removed his finger from the map. Once more, Maks was making solid arguments that he would be a fool to ignore.

“But I do have some interesting news,” Maks said, still cradling his mobile in the palm of his hand. “One of my newer sources has said that there has been steady activity over the last two days at a country house that used to be owned by one of Russia’s wealthiest oligarchs. The oligarch himself is in exile in Switzerland, for being audacious enough to suggest that Putin might want to adopt more of the business practices of the west, but his properties were almost all confiscated, including this one south of Fanagoriyskoye. Most have been sold to Putin’s cronies, but no one seems to know what happened to this particular property.” Maks pointed to a remote area almost directly south of Krasnodar while thumbing on his mobile and showing the screen to Mycroft.

It showed a picture of a somewhat ridiculous house, complete with turrets and other over-the-top architectural details that the nouveau riche always built to appear more cultured than they actually were. Mycroft’s frown deepened when he caught sight of something just in the corner of the photo, almost completely out of the shot. There, next to what looked like a garage or warehouse, stood a plain white van. Only a corner of the registration plates were visible, but Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as he realized the last two digits matched the van that was seen leaving the jail in Crimea.

“That’s the same van,” another voice came and Mycroft glanced over his other shoulder to look at John, who had apparently moved out of the shadows. His gaze was locked on the phone with an intensity that would have been scary had it not been a welcome sight to Mycroft. It was a glimpse of the old John Watson, the one who would do anything to keep his brother safe, including march into the Diogenes Club and threaten Mycroft when he felt he had been pushing his brother too hard.

“That’s what we think,” confirmed Maks, which sent a thrill up Mycroft’s spine.

“So how do we get there?” John asked quietly. Maks shot Mycroft a look, clearly questioning John’s role in all this and Mycroft bit back a sigh.

“Doctor Watson has spent two and a half tours of duty in Afghanistan, where he served in dangerous situations with great distinction.” Mycroft said quietly. He knew that John wasn’t at his best, but Mycroft felt like his presence was a substantial step towards ensuring their success. He knew very well that John considered it his personal mission to protect Sherlock, and that’s what Mycroft was counting on.

“Well, the main problem of this particular location is that it is extremely remote,” Maks said, pointing out the lack of roads. “It’s a very hilly region, which limits our access, even from the sea. My suggestion is that we travel by boat to Dzhubga,” he pointed to the small resort town close to the only main road in the area. “My contact can meet us there and we can head into Fanagoriyskoye itself before attempting to access the compound. The grounds look to be fairly secure, but there are these railroad tracks we can most likely follow.” He pointed just east of the compound, where a set of tracks ran parallel to the compound in question.

“Do we assume Sherlock is in the building nearest the van?” John asked, frowning at the satellite photograph. There were three large buildings in the clearing, in addition to several small out-buildings.

“That makes the most sense, but we can’t be certain at this point,” Maks responded.

“So when do we leave?” Mycroft asked.

“Late this afternoon is our earliest opportunity,” Maks replied. “Boris will be docking for his afternoon fishing run at 3. He’ll be the one to take us over and drop us off.”

Mycroft nodded; he was anxious to leave, but at the same time, he knew the dangers of heading into hostile territory without a solid plan.

‘Well, since you have it all planned,” Nikov interjected, his voice dripping with his irritation, “there’s no need for me to be here.” 

Mycroft bit back a retort and just nodded. The man was obviously looking to have his ego stroked by having them argue about his importance, but he wasn’t going to spare the effort to play the other man’s game. A tense silence stretched for a few minutes before Nikov turned on his heel and stomped out of the building. Maks and Mycroft both sighed softly as the sound of a car driving away echoed in the quiet morning outside.

“I need to make some arrangements,” Maks said after a few moments and turned to leave the building himself. Mycroft tried to turn his attention back to the map, but something caught his eye. A small picture was taped to the map near the jail in Sevastopol and Mycroft stared at it before plucking it free of the pin.

The photo was of Sherlock as he was being escorted from the jail two and a half days ago. He was almost unrecognizable from the last time Mycroft had seen his brother in person, standing on the wind-swept tarmac as he had said his goodbyes; his hair was cut brutally short and he was dressed in a cheap tracksuit which had obviously been given to him by prison officials. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as he studied the image, relieved by this physical evidence of his brother’s continued existence.

“Hang in there, ‘Lockie,” he murmured, the childish nickname slipping out as he ran his finger over the edge of the picture. “I’m coming, Just hold on a little while longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. I'm really sorry this has taken so long to update. I've been busy, as usual, but that's really no excuse. I tried NaNoWriMo for the first time last month and managed to only get about half of it done (on the plus side, I've gotten 21K words into what might be my next multi-part Sherlock fic). I'm also doing the 25 Days of Fic-Mas challenge, if anyone wants to read those (in an ongoing theme, I'm falling behind there as well). 
> 
> A couple of quick notes about this chapter:  
> 1) every location and city mentioned here is real, but as always, I am just borrowing the locations to help me write. I have no knowledge of the purpose of any of these buildings (particuarly the compound where Sherlock is being held).  
> 2) the story of the Russian oligarch is loosely based on Mikhail Khodorkovsky, an oil magnate who fell afoul of the Putin regime by suggesting that Russia needed to become more westernized. He spent several years in a gulag before fleeing to Switzerland upon his release. (Ironically, it appears he has been in the news in the last few days, accused by Russian authorities of arranging the murder of a Russian mayor in 1998.)
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to everyone who is reading this. Sometime in October marked the year anniversary of starting to post this monstrosity and it just seems completely unreal to me that this has grown this big. We are definitely in the home stretch and the action will definitely be picking back up now that we have a skeleton plan for a rescue!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Violence, interrogations and Whomp!Sherlock. Please read with care.

Sherlock was jerked awake from a shallow sleep by what sounded like the metallic crash of a door that came from somewhere upstairs in the building. He lay still on the thin mattress, hoping that sleep would reclaim him so he could escape the pains in his body. Unfortunately, the sudden awakening had caused him to tense up, which in turn had caused the pain in his ribs to pull him the rest of the way into wakefulness. A low groan escaped from his lips as he shifted slightly, which caused more pain to shoot across his chest as his bruised ribs protested the motion.

Sherlock lay there panting in the darkness, attempting to marshal the pain so he could focus on analysing his surroundings. He had no way of determining how long he had been asleep. The only detail he could be absolutely sure of was that however long he had been asleep, it hadn’t been long enough to alleviate the any of the pain in his ribs or head. As he lay there in the darkness, fighting the pitching of his stomach and head, another sound that grew out of the echoes of the slamming door drew his attention. He frowned for a moment, trying to place the sound before realizing that he might be hearing voices from somewhere.

He frowned in concentration as he listened to the noise, trying to determine if the voices were real or just figments of his stimuli-deprived brain. This wasn’t the first time he had thought that there were other people talking near him as he had lain here in the dark. But each previous time, it had turned out to be nothing but a hallucination as the voices had faded back into the silence within seconds. This time, however, instead of disappearing, they were growing louder by the seconds. It wasn’t long before Sherlock could tell they were engaged in a heated argument.

Sherlock frowned as he lay there listening to the argument. He couldn’t make out what they were arguing about, but he was almost certain that the voices belonged to Vasily and Dimitri, and they were definitely growing louder. He frowned, realizing that he really should try to to sit upright; he didn’t want to greet the return of his two tormentors lying flat on his back. It was solely a matter of pride - but really, Sherlock reasoned as his tried to brace himself for how much this manoeuvre was going to hurt, pride was all he had left.

It took several excruciating minutes and a couple aborted attempts, but Sherlock finally managed to push himself upright. The pain in his ribs was the most severe, but there were numerous other areas of his body that hurt as well, injuries from his various interrogations over the last few days. No doubt the hours in the increasingly cold basement had done nothing to improve his general physical condition.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed as he shifted slightly so he could lean against the wall, hoping the support would help his control reestablish itself. He bit back a minor curse as his bare back made contact with the cold basement wall, which only made his muscle grown tense and the pain to increase slightly. He kept his eyes closed as he waited for his head to stop spinning; opening them wouldn’t help the dizziness, of course, since the lights were still off and there was no visual reference he could use to gain his bearings.

The voices outside the room were growing louder and while Sherlock still couldn’t make out the words, he could tell that his tormentors were definitely now in the hallway approaching his room. A knot of fear started to grow in his stomach as he focused on the voices; he didn’t know exactly how much longer he could draw out the interrogation before he was either shipped to Moscow for further interrogation - or just shot to eliminate whatever threat they believed that he posed.

A few seconds later, the voices stopped outside the door and silence fell outside the room. Sherlock had no idea if the argument had been resolved or just suspended. Before he could form any guesses, the solitary light bulb flicked on and Sherlock bit back a groan as he was blinded by the sudden brightness. Almost at the exact same moment, the door to the hallway crashed open, the loud thud it made as it hit the wall only increasing the din inside Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock blinked furiously, trying to force his eyes to see what was happening around him. He could hear the sound of footsteps enter the room, two pairs of heavy boots, judging by the echoes coming off the concrete floor. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock’s eyes refused to cooperate, leaving him almost as blind in the light as he had been in the total darkness. Only a few seconds passed before the one set of footsteps stopped almost directly in front of him and hands clamped around each of Sherlock’s wrists in unbreakable grips and he was yanked roughly upright, a soft whimper of pain escaping his lips as he was manhandled to his feet.

He wasn’t given the time to find his balance before he was yanked forward towards the middle of the room. He stumbled and his feet dragged along the floor a couple of times, almost losing his balance more than once. Each misstep caused another jolt of pain to explode across his chest as his broken ribs shifted position. By the time a rough hand on his shoulder abruptly stopped his forward progress, Sherlock was once again on the verge of passing out from the pain.

As he stood still, attempting to catching his breath, the pain slowly started to recede. As it did, his vision finally began to clear enough so he could cast a wary eye around the room to gain his bearings. Vasily stood directly behind him, his hand still holding Sherlock’s shoulder in a painful grip. Across his face was the now familiar leer that promised Sherlock was indeed in a great deal of trouble. Dimitri had once again taken up his usual post by the door, leaning indolently against the wall and watching the proceedings disinterestedly. His facial expression was just as familiar as Vasily’s – a bored blankness that implied he was completely unaffected by what was happening. But Sherlock could just make out a sparkle in his eyes that contradicted his assumed indifference. Sherlock couldn’t be sure, of course, but he suspected the new light in Dimitri’s eyes was due to the fact that, for the first time since his arrest, Sherlock was unable to hide his pain as successfully as he had been in the past.

“Well, well, well,” drawled Vasily, the smug smile spreading further across his face as he moved to stand in front of Sherlock, “it sounds like someone is in a little pain. I’m sorry to see that you aren’t enjoying our hospitality.” He paused, making a show of dragging his eyes over Sherlock’s body; his leer growing wider every time he stopped to linger over a symbol of his brutality. “Of course, there is something you could do to make all this go just a little bit easier for you.”

Sherlock refused to reply; his pride once more outweighing his sense of self-preservation. It might not be the most logical decision, but he knew the score. Prolonging his life by telling them anything would put the people in danger when he had sacrificed so much to protect them. 

“Now, don’t be stubborn,” purred Vasily after a minute’s silence, as if he could read Sherlock’s thoughts. “There’s no need for you to continue to suffer. Tell us what we need to know, and we won’t be forced to pry it out of you. The only person you’re hurting by being stubborn is yourself.” 

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut for just a second, long enough for John’s face to swim into focus. That open, honest face, smiling and laughing as he stared down at his infant daughter held tightly against his chest. He snapped his eyes back open and fixed a pointedly blank look at Vasily, who gave an overly dramatic sigh as he read Sherlock’s refusal in his facial expression. He reached behind his back and with a clink of metal, withdrew a set of handcuffs from his pocket. Sherlock focused on keeping his face impassive as Vasily clicked the restraints around his wrists. Once Vasily tied a rope to the handcuffs and started hoisting his wrists up towards the ceiling, Sherlock couldn’t hold back the low groan of pain as the strain on his battered rib cage increased the further his arms were drawn above his head.

“Oh don’t worry,” Vasily replied, obviously having heard the noise as he tied off the rope; Sherlock’s arms were almost completely stretched over his head and his vision was starting to go black around the edges again as his breathing grew more shallow as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. “You’ll be making a lot more noise than that by the time we’re done with you. This is your last chance to change your mind.” Sherlock just stood there, still as a statue, his teeth biting into his lower lip to keep the groans of pain unuttered.

“Have it your way then,” Vasily said cheerily as he started flexing his fingers, quite obviously relishing the prospect of continuing his assault on Sherlock. The sound of cracking knuckles only served to magnify the tension that was spreading across Sherlock’s body. With no additional warning, Vasily’s fist collided with the side of his ribcage, directly on top of one of his deepest bruises. He tried to keep still, to minimize the pain he was in and the chance of shifting the broken bones in his ribs, but the blow was just too strong. He started to sway slightly, his shoulders and arms almost bearing his full weight, and that movement only increased the pain in chest to the point where he was struggling to draw any air into his lungs.

Blow after blow followed and Sherlock could do nothing but try to ride the tide of pain as best he could. He couldn’t get any purchase with his feet, so there was no way to brace himself between blows. The only saving grace was that the twisting motion of his torso, which pulled and shifted his broken ribs, made it difficult for Vasily to target blows towards his most vulnerable areas. His anger towards Sherlock and his obvious enjoyment of his pain was making him lose his concentration and the blows were starting to lose their effectiveness.

Vasily paused momentarily and Sherlock took a deep breath - which turned into a scream of pain as a line of pain exploded unexpectedly across his lower back. He hadn’t noticed that Dimitri had finally moved away from his post at the door. The cry was silenced when Dimitri struck again, the blow laid precisely in the same location. Sherlock almost blacked out from the pain, only to be dragged back by another blow of Vasily’s fists to his stomach. When the blackness at the edge of his vision faded slightly, Sherlock risked a glance over his other shoulder. He couldn’t suppress the shudder that crept down his spine when he caught sight of the thin metal rod clenched in one of Dimitri’s fists, a small streak of crimson on one side confirmed that it was the cause of the sharp lines of pain on his back.

Sherlock turned back towards the wall in front of him, trying to marshal a few deep breaths to try to control the pain, but his ribs just wouldn’t allow him to do more than pant shallowly. This time, he caught the faint wisp of sound the rod made as it sliced through the air towards him, but it was a fruitless warning. He couldn’t brace himself or evade the blow and his muscles tightened up in anticipation, which only succeeded in aggravating all his other injuries at the same time.

After a few more blows which inched their way up his back, turning his flesh inch by inch into a raw mass of muscle, Sherlock began to lose consciousness yet again. The edges of his vision were blurry and he was having great difficulty catching his breath. Blow after blow rained over his back in a consistent climb up his spine. Where Vasily let his emotions get carried away, which had decreased the effectiveness of his blows, Dimitri was cool and calculated. Sherlock could feel the rod move progressively up his back, each line aimed to lie just above the one before it. His whole back felt like it was on fire. It was so much more painful than the bullet that Mary had lodged in his chest. He could barely breathe by the time the blows reached the bottom of his ribcage and each subsequent blow felt like his back was being flayed open.

He couldn’t say how many blows Dimitri inflicted or how long it took, but the blows didn’t stop falling until the whole of Sherlock’s back, from his hips to his shoulder blades, felt like it had been doused in petrol and lit on fire. He stood there, practically suspended by his wrists from the ceiling and struggled to find a way out of the maelstrom of pain.

The first sign that the beating might be over which registered amongst all the pain was his wrists being lowered from the ceiling. While the movement in his arms only increased the pain in his ribs, his breathing became easier as his arms lowered to a natural position. His vision was still a little blurry around the edges, but since he could finally focus on more than just the pain, Sherlock tried to focus on his surroundings rather than his physical body, but he didn’t have much success. Vasily and Dimitri moved to flank him, and as one, they grabbed his upper arm in tight grasps and dragged his shaking body back towards the mattress. Once there, they let go and watched as he collapsed down onto it. The jarring impact sent Sherlock’s head spinning towards unconsciousness, a welcome respite from the bundle of agony that the metal had had made of his body. He honestly couldn’t remember ever being in this much pain – even the beating in Serbia that Mycroft had rescued him from had been only a fraction of the pain he was in now.

He heard the sound of the door opening just as the word was beginning to fade to black and just as he lost consciousness, he heard the smug voice of Vasily make an ominous announcement just before the door slammed shut and the light clicked off. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Smirnov. The next time we see you… it’ll be to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can only apologize for the extreme gap between updates. The holidays were much busier than I had thought and the lack of consistent writing time made this chapter extremely difficult. I'm posting this from my tablet, so I hope nothing has gone wonky with the formatting. As always, comments/feedback/corrections are certainly welcome.
> 
> And I'm sorry about leaving poor Sherlock in such a bad way. Poor, poor broken Sherlock.....


	33. Chapter 33

**March 5**

Several hours after nightfall, a small boat pulled away from a pier south of Odessa and headed across the Black Sea towards the western coast of Russia. It was an exceptionally calm night; the moon shone brightly in the nearly cloudless sky and caught on the crests of the small waves created by the small fishing boat, the only disturbances on the otherwise smooth surface. In some ways, the view reminded John of some of the nights he had spent in Afghanistan, when the harsh landscape outside the base had been starkly highlighted by the moonlight ghosting over the seemingly endless landscape.

John stood on the prow of the small fishing boat, his eyes scanning the horizon for other signs of boats. After every few passes, his eyes would be drawn back upwards to the nearly full moon that hung near the horizon. But despite the pretty picture it made, John wished the cloud cover was heavier tonight. The bright light made their small fishing boat far too visible for anyone who might be trying to track their movement. Fortunately, the sea around them remained clear of any other boats.

John looked back over his shoulder towards the small cabin on the boat, where Mycroft was conferring with Maks Lysenko, no doubt refining the details of the rescue plan. It felt a little hard to believe that it had just been about 24 hours since Mycroft had shown up at Baker Street, saying it was finally time to go rescue Sherlock. For the first time in weeks, John had felt the haze of his grief lift slightly. The initial adrenaline rush had subsided somewhat while they were on the plane, allowing John to catch a few hours’ sleep, but for the first time since that awful morning at the hospital, he felt almost completely connected to the world around him. It was certainly a relief to feel anything other than the mind-numbing grief of the last few weeks.

A while later, someone moving to stand next to him on the deck drew John’s attention; he glanced back over his shoulder just as Maks moved up to stand next to him. John sent him a wary smile as Max peered over the horizon himself. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the agent who had been working with Sherlock. It was reassuring to meet someone who had proof Sherlock was alive as of a few days ago, but he was having a hard time getting a feel for the other man. It was probably something to do with his line of work; inscrutability was certainly an asset for someone in the intelligence business.

“It’s good to finally meet you in person, Doctor Watson,” Maks began quietly, his gaze sweeping over the water around them, clearly doing his own survey of their surroundings. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” John said, slightly surprised, wondering just who had talked about him.

“Sherlock has talked about you more than a few times during our acquaintance. Maybe not so much during this mission, but it’s clear that you mean a lot to him” Maks clarified, his voice growing slightly gruff for some reason. John shot him a confused look; this conversation was making less and less sense by the minute.

“I worked with Sherlock for the first time a couple of years ago, during part of his time overseas after the faked suicide. He was targeting a smuggling ring in my territory that had been a large part of James Moriarty’s network.” John stiffened slightly at the mention of that particular time frame in his life. He had forgiven the lies and betrayal a long time ago, but it still stung occasionally when he thought about how he had been left to wallow in his pain, forgotten, while Sherlock had gone on without him. Maks must have picked up on John’s tension, however, because he shot him a swift look, as if he was wondering if he had said something wrong.

“Not your fault,” John reassured the other man swiftly. “I’m just surprised that Sherlock talked about me much during that time,” Maks shot him another look, one that was eerily similar to the one Sherlock shot him time and time again when he thought John was being deliberately obtuse.

“There aren’t many people in the world for whom Sherlock Holmes would be willing to sacrifice himself for,” Maks replied bluntly, which made John squirm a bit. For some reason, he still had trouble believing he was so important to Sherlock. “Sherlock made it perfectly clear that while he found me an adequate accomplice for his work, I wasn’t the man he really wanted with him.”

John tensed up again as Maks paused here; he had a guess where this conversation might be going and it wasn’t into an area he wanted to talk about. If Sherlock had really been that honest with Maks, he probably would have mentioned the circumstances that had sent him on this last disastrous mission. Fortunately, however, after a few tense moments, Maks appeared to realize that asking why John wasn’t at home with his wife and child was a really bad idea.

“So have you and Mycroft agreed on a plan?” John asked, hoping to break the awkward silence and move the conversation onto safer ground. He had caught snippets of the planning earlier in the day as they had spent hours in that warehouse by the airport pouring over maps and arguing about tactics. John had tuned it out eventually; since he had no helpful knowledge of the area, his input had been limited at best. He had been dozing on the floor against the wall of the warehouse when Maks had nudged him towards an office that had been squeezed into the corner of the building. It hadn’t been much, but there had least been a sofa that had been slightly more comfortable than the floor that he had been able to grab some sleep on.

“Yes,” Maks replied, but he hesitated a minute before continuing. “Well, we at least have the first part of a plan. We are heading for Dzhubga; it’s a small spa town on the coast that’s just north of the estate we think Sherlock is imprisoned. We should arrive shortly before dawn, which will hopefully give us some cover to get inland before too many people are about.”

The moonlight suddenly dimmed as a cloud drifted across the moon just then, and John frowned as he looked up at the sky. Clouds were starting to gather on the horizon, where John could just see the cliffs that formed the western Russian coastline. It seemed a bit like an ill omen that clouds were gathering the closer they got to their destination.

“Once we get ashore, we’re meeting my contact at his brother’s garage on the outskirts of town. It’s about an hour drive to estate,” Maks continued as John studied the sky.

“And then?” John asked, feeling like he already knew the answer.

“Well, that’s the end of the plan. Once we get to the village north of the estate, we’re officially flying by the seat of our pants.” John couldn’t quite hide the smirk that stretched his mouth at that statement; getting to the estate was by far the easiest part of the mission, after all.

\---

A couple hours later, it was Maks’ turn to be alone at the prow of the ship, watching the cliffs that framed the coastline slide by as they made their slow way south. Boris had cut the engine down to an idling speed to keep the noise down. It meant they were travelling extremely slowly, but they were counting on the darkness that still lingered and the sparse population in the region to keep them from being seen.

Behind him, Mycroft, John and the two guards were squeezed into the small cabin with Boris. Maks couldn’t quite help the smirk as he thought about how crowded that little room must feel. Once he had finished his conversation with John, Maks had decided to stay on the deck rather than join the crowded cabin; fortunately, the temperatures were fairly mild for early March. It was still fairly cold, granted, but it wasn’t cold enough to make standing in that tiny cramped cabin seem appealing.

Maks sighed as he thought back over his conversation with John. They hadn’t spoken for long, but he could see why Sherlock was so attached to him. John Watson oozed a sense of calm and determination that inspired confidence. He hadn’t even been thrown into a panic at the idea that they only had a fraction of a plan; in fact, he had seemed to grow more enthusiastic the longer they had talked about the various obstacles and unknowns that they could face. Of course, his experience in the Army had conditioned him to be calm in these types of circumstances, not to mention what he had learned chasing Sherlock Holmes all over London.

A narrow jetty appeared on the water in front of the boat and Maks took a breath as he watched the rickety-looking wooden structure drawing nearer. They were just on the north-western edge of the town; the lights from the couple of multi-story hotels that sat in the middle of the town showed clearly against the dark hillsides that surrounded the town. Turning around, Maks headed back towards the back of the boat to help gather their things. Three minutes later, they bumped into the jetty and Maks had to swallow the nervous lump in his throat as he watched his four companions climb onto the pier, each man wearing dark-coloured street clothes and carrying backpacks with all their tactical gear.

“You better get going,” Boris said suddenly from behind him and Maks turned slightly to face the older man. He couldn’t quite ignore the worried look in the older man’s eyes. The two of them had worked together for a long time and both of them knew just how dangerous this mission was likely to be.

“Thanks for everything,” Maks replied quickly as he swung his own pack onto his back. “If something goes wrong…”

“None of that now,” came the gruff reply. “I’ll be waiting for the signal to meet you at the rendezvous point for at least the next three nights unless I hear otherwise.” Maks gave a nod and vaulted off the boat. As he walked up the pier, he heard the sound of the engine firing up. Once he was safely on the beach, he couldn’t resist turning back towards the sea and watching the boat leave, hoping it wasn’t the last time he would see his old friend.

\----

Mycroft breathed a soft sigh of relief when the five men slipped into the alleyway at the back of the garage. The walk through the city streets had only taken approximately half an hour, but it had felt much longer. Mycroft had spent most of the journey anxiously scanning the buildings they were passing, constantly looking for signed they were being watched or followed. He would never admit it to a soul, but the lack of controlled circumstances was one of the main reason he avoided field work whenever possible.

While they waited for someone to answer the door, Mycroft noticed that John stood at the back of the group, watching the street behind them; no doubt it was one of those ingrained habits from his time in the service. A long, increasingly tense minute passed before the door finally opened and after a whispered conversation, Maks beckoned them inside. They entered a large room that obviously functioned as a repair bay. In front of a large garage door next to the door from the alley was parked a large grey transit van. The only other exit was the non-descript door that obviously led to the rest of the shop.

“Mycroft, a word?” called Maks from the other side of the room where he stood next to the man who had answered the door. The mechanic was younger than he had expected; he looked like he should still be in school, which certainly didn’t decrease his sense of unease. Maks had said that he was one of his newest contacts, but he hadn’t mentioned that he would likely be almost completely inexperienced.

“Mycroft, this is Vladimir,” Maks said as the other man reached a callous hand forward; Mycroft shook it, noticing as he did so that at least the man’s hands weren’t clammy with sweat; a minor relief, but he was looking for anything reassuring about this man. “He’s going to be the man who drives us to the estate. It’s just over an hour from here to the village just north of the estate we are aiming for.”

“How soon do we leave?” Mycroft asked, glancing down at his watch. It was just before seven in the morning.

“The roads are pretty vacant right now,” Vladimir warned, “While I understand time is of the essence, it would be better if we wait until we won’t be the only car on the street. Make it harder to track where we are going.” Mycroft nodded; he hadn’t noticed many CCTV cameras on the walk here, but it was certainly easier and better if they can get lost in a crowd.

“What vehicle will we be taking?”

“That van there,” Vladimir replied, pointing towards the van. “It’ll be a bit cramped with all your gear, but it’s not for that long.” Maks and Alex shook hands and the other man disappeared back into the main area of the shop. Maks took a minute to fill everyone else in on the plan, and once he was finished, the two Ukrainians and John threw their packs into the back of the van and settled down to wait. 

Mycroft spent the next hour going over the map with Maks, studying the topography and trying to determine the best way to access the estate. Maks had some satellite photographs of the complex as well, but they didn’t provide much that couldn’t have been inferred from the maps. It was fairly isolated, only a few kilometres from the village, but surrounded by trees, with a railroad track on the east side and a river on the west. Finally, just about the time they were due to leave, Mycroft felt like they had finally developed a plan of attack.

As Maks folded up the maps, Mycroft glanced around the room. The Ukrainians were seated on the floor against the far wall, conversing quietly in their native tongue. Mycroft eavesdropped for a moment; were they just conversing in their language out of ease, or where they trying to keep something from the rest of the group? After a minute, however, Mycroft heard the name of a football team, which made him relax. John, on the other hand, was seated in a chair next to a dilapidated desk, staring down at his clasped hands.

Deciding now was the best time, Mycroft pulled a small object out of the inside pocket of his jacket and headed in that direction. As he approached, John looked up at him, a curious glint to his eye. Mycroft was relieved to see that the haunted look that John had worn so often in the last three months had lessened significantly.

“I have something for you,” he said when he was standing in front of John, holding out the item for him to take. John blinked as if he couldn’t quite believe was he was seeing. After a second, however, he reached out and tentatively took the Sig from Mycroft’s hand.

“How?” he asked, a croaky note to his voice as he turned his gun over in his hand.

“I requested its return shortly after New Year’s,” Mycroft admitted uncomfortably. This was as close to ‘sentimental’ as he could ever remember being for anyone who wasn’t a direct family member. “I should mention that this time, it’s all above-board. You’ll be able to legally carry it when we return to London” he added, inwardly cursing the way his voice sounded like he was emotionally compromised.

John blinked somewhat rapidly, looking for a moment like he still couldn’t believe what he was holding. He muttered something that sounded like a thank you, but before he could pull himself together, Vladimir returned and announced that they should get ready to leave soon.

The journey was tense and uncomfortable. The transit van seemed to bounce along from pothole to pothole, causing the four men in the back to groan loudly with every bone-jarring crash. For a while, the trip was merely highly uncomfortable as they travelled along the one semi-major highway in the region, but once they turned south off the road, the road seemed to become one giant rut that continually slammed them into each other and the sides of the van. It felt like much longer than an hour, but eventually, the van pulled to a stop and Maks called back that they were at the drop-off point.

The men pulled on their gear quickly and adjusted the contents of their packs to make sure their weapons were still hidden, but easily snatched if needed. Since it was daylight, they wore basic hunting gear over their black tactical clothing. It might be too warm for longer than a few minutes in an enclosed car, but Mycroft knew he’d be grateful for the layers by the time they had completed this mission.

Once they were all dressed and armed, Maks opened up the back of the van and the four men piled out of the back. As soon as the door was slammed shut, Alex waived out the window and pulled away to wait for their signal. They had decided it wasn’t smart to leave the car on the side of the road for an indefinite period of time.

Without a word, the five men turned and began to head south through the trees towards the sound of the river that they could just hear. Their progress was slow; there might not be much snow left on the ground, but they still had to be careful about the tracks they left. Fortunately, the ground was still frozen solid, which meant they were able to follow the creek bed south without having to worry too much about mud or tracks. 

It took several hours for them to hike through the trees; they paused frequently and occasionally sent someone doubling back to make sure they weren’t being followed. It was late morning before the trees began to thin. A few minutes later, they finally reached the northwest corner of the clearing where the estate was located. Hanging back just inside the tree line, Mycroft surveyed the buildings, gratified to see that the layout matched the intelligence reports they had received. The closest building was the low garage where they were fairly sure Sherlock was being held and sure enough, they could just see the tailgate of the white van that had transported Sherlock away from Sevastopol around the corner of the building.

There weren’t any signs of life that they could see in the rest of the complex. The main buildings were well maintained, but there weren’t many signs of vehicle traffic other than from the gate to the corner where the van was parked. There weren’t any visible lights in the windows of the main house, but that could be because it was almost midday by this point.

Just then, the sound of a door slamming made everyone retreat a few steps and crouch down near the base of some large trees. Mycroft cursed the lack of leaves on the trees; while the frozen ground was a help, the bare trees offered a distinct lack of cover, especially if they ended up having to make a run for it. Movement around the van drew their eyes and Mycroft noticed that the two Ukrainian agents had their rifles at the ready. As they watched, two men emerged from the shadows of the garage; while they were too far away to catch the words, it was obvious that they were engaged in a heated argument. It carried on the entire time it took them both to climb into the white van and moments later, the engine roared to life and the van sped out of the clearing towards the road back to the village.

Mycroft stared at the back of the departing van, the various scenarios for their departure running through his mind. What was the cause of the argument? Did their anger mean that they were differing over what was to become of his brother? It was possible, but probably unlikely, that their argument had nothing to do with his brother, of course. While his mind was racing, Mycroft caught the sound of Maks ending a quick phone call.

“Alex is going to check out where they go and alert me if they start heading back. But I think we better take advantage of their absence. The fewer people around, the better for us.” Mycroft nodded. A quick glance around showed a similar resolution in the faces of everyone present. This might be their one chance to rescue Sherlock and they had better take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I am just going to accept that I'm terrible at regularly scheduled updates by this point. I'm really sorry for all the long waits between chapters.
> 
> It's really hard to believe that I'm finally at this point in the story. This all started out with a fairly simple idea - Sherlock goes on the mission and Mycroft has to rescue him. How did I get from there to 118K+ words and 33 chapters - and I'm not even done yet? According to my notes, we have about 3 chapters and an epilogue left. so we are definitely in the home stretch. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is reading and encouraging me through this. It really means quite a lot. As always, comments/corrections/thoughts are welcome.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some violence and descriptions of blood/wounds.

“Let’s go.”

The quiet command from Maks was the only signal they needed. John took a few deep breaths and watched as the other men left the shelter of the trees and headed towards the nearest corner of the garage. He stayed where he was, shielded behind a thick tree right at the edge of the woods, and scanned the buildings and clearing; while the other men moved quickly and quietly from the woods to the nearest wall of the garage, he watched for any signs of anyone else at the compound. Fortunately, there were no signs that anyone else was in the vicinity. The only noises besides the muffled footsteps of his companions were the wind whipping through the barren trees and the odd animal call from the forest behind him.

Once the others had reached the corner of the building, John followed, his pistol clasped firmly in his hand. His stance and movement were confident and easy; his military training had never been buried far under the civilian veneer he had grown over the last few years. Even more reassuring than that, however, was that for the first time in months, John’s mind and vision was clear and absolutely focused on the task at hand.

It took less than a minute for him to reach the others; as soon as he ducked around the corner, Maks and one of his agents moved towards the door about ten feet down the wall. John stayed near the corner, watching their backs not only for signs of life but also in case the white van returned. He tuned out the whispered conversation behind him as the two men worked to pick the lock on the door. Kicking it down might be faster (not to mention more satisfying), but it would also be an instant giveaway that someone else had been here once the other men returned. Fortunately, it was less than a minute before John heard the lock click and he turned in time to see Maks cautiously push the door open.

While Maks poked his head in the door, his own gun held at the ready, John moved from the corner of the garage to stand directly behind him. A few seconds passed before he gestured them all inside. John followed immediately behind Maks, with Mycroft in the middle and the two Ukrainians bringing up the rear by prearranged order. Mycroft, for all his skill at political manoeuvring and intrigue, was by far the weakest of them all in the field and he had readily agreed to allow Maks to take charge of this part of the plan.

Once he cleared the entryway, John paused for a brief second to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the hallway. He frowned as the interior came into focus; it wasn’t at all what he had been expecting. Rather than the garage or industrial space the outside of the building indicated, he might as well have been in a suburban office block. They were standing in a narrow hallway that had several doors on the left and two hallways that split off to the right. There were no decorations on the wall 

“Let’s go,” Maks whispered, nudging John slightly with his shoulder. John nodded and they started moving cautiously down the hallway as a pair. The door clicked closed behind them and the hallways were suddenly cloaked in shadows. John bit back a curse as the few bare bulbs that hung in the ceiling did little to show them if people were lurking in the corners. They stopped just before the first hallway. John edged right up to the edge of the wall and took a deep breath before quickly turning the corner, his Sig leading the way. A quick glance showed that this corridor was a copy of the other one, with only a few doorways scattered on both sides. At the end of the corridor, there was a left turn, that John guessed what the other end of a rectangle.

“Split up?” he asked in a whisper. It might be slightly riskier, but being able to cover ground faster would definitely be to their advantage.

“Yes. Take Mycroft and Petr and go this way. Mikael and I will head down the other hallway.”

John nodded and began to move cautiously forward, Maks and Petr following close behind. Their footsteps echoed slightly on the bare concrete floor and John cursed the lack of carpeting. It only took a few steps for them to reach the first door and John stopped next to the handle, holding his breath as he tried turning the knob. It wasn’t locked; with a glance, Petr moved quickly to the other side of the door, ready to cover John if needed. A deep breath was all the time John allowed himself before he pushed the door open and rushed into the room, Sig darting from corner to corner as he searched for threats.

The room was long and fairly narrow storeroom, with only a few bare shelving units placed against the hallway wall. Judging by the faintly stale smell to the air and the thick layer of dust visible on the shelves, it had been quite some time since anyone had been in this room. John pulled back out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him before continuing down the hallway.

It took less than five minutes to clear the entire floor; every door John had opened had revealed equally empty and neglected rooms. There were signs of neglect everywhere; mould clung in some corners and faint traces of rot lingered in the air. Once they turned the corner and cleared that short hallway, they met up with Maks and Mikael on the far side of the rectangle, and it was clear from their expressions that their explorations had been equally fruitless.

The door in front of them, at the far corner from where they entered, was the only one that hadn’t lead them into an empty room. The dark staircase leading down into the basement would have been called creepy in any other circumstances. Right now, however, deep in Russia desperately trying to rescue his best friend, the only word that came to John’s mind was ominous. That feeling only increased when he noticed something on the dingy doorframe. Right at the same height as the handle was a dark red smear that John recognized instantly as dried blood. He touched his fingertips lightly to the stain, and his heart jumped when he realized it was still fairly tacky.

“This is fresh,” he whispered, drawing everyone’s attention to the small splotch. He brought his fingertips up to his nose and the faint metallic aroma of blood made his heart catch in his throat. Mycroft made some strangled noise behind him, just loud enough to jolt John out of his trance. The urge to charge down the stairs was almost overwhelming, but he held onto his restraint by the skin of his teeth. Charging down would only put everyone’s lives in danger, if a guard had been stationed down there. Reaching into his pack, John pulled out a small torch, noticing that Maks was doing the same. With a shared nod between them, the two men cautiously led the way down.

John’s heart caught in his throat as the narrow beam of light from his torch caught on several more blood smears on the wall nearest him. There was a slight sheen on each that caught the light, which only reinforced his conclusion that they had been left recently. Anger raced through his veins as he realized that the stain had probably been left by those two men on their way back to the van.

The hallway at the bottom of the stairs split in two directions and John assumed that this floor was laid out exactly the same as the one above it.

"My guess would be that he’s in the middle there,” Maks said, nodding towards the interior rooms in front of them. He looked up and down the hallways, frowning slightly. “I don’t see any doors on either wall, so the entrance is probably on the far side. You three go straight, but be quick.”

John motioned to Mycroft and Petr and they set off the hallway in front of them. Maks had been correct; there were no doors to the interior space. There were only a few doors on the outside of the building, each one leading to yet another store room.

Sure enough, on the opposite side of the floor from the staircase was the only door that lead into the room in the middle of the floor - and it was the only door they had encountered so far that was locked. John stared for a minute at the light switch that sat next to the door frame, frowning. It was an odd place for a light switch – until it occurred to him that it must control the lights in the room with Sherlock. Anger burned through him at the thought that Sherlock must have been left in the dark for hours at a time. They had never discussed it, but ever since his return, John had noticed that Sherlock had started leaving more lights on around Baker Street at all hours. If they had really trapped in for hours in the darkness, it must have felt like torture.

Petr pushed his way past John, his lock picking equipment already in his hands and Mikael moved back down the hallway towards the staircase to watch their backs. John took the opportunity to slip his pack off and set it down at his feet; it was a matter of seconds to pull the large medical kit Maks had procured from its spacious depths. Just as he was shouldering his pack again, the lock clicked open. John and Maks nodded at each other and as Maks pushed the door open, John flicked the light switch on.

The sight that met them inside the room was even worse than he had been expecting. John’s eyes swept the room quickly, noting the chair and cabinet that stood to his right before his attention froze on the far corner of the room. Sherlock lay on his stomach on a very thin mattress, his bare back covered in welts and blood. He wore only a thin pair of track bottoms, which were streaked with blood in places. Even from this distance, John couldn’t see any part of his torso that wasn’t covered in blood or vivid bruises. Sherlock also hadn’t reacted to the light or their arrival, and for just a minute, John feared that they were too late.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, the horror at what he was seeing creeping into his voice.

“Dear god, ‘Lockie,’ he heard Mycroft whisper behind him. John glanced quickly over his shoulder and was startled to see Mycroft completely stripped of his usual unperturbable mask. He honestly couldn’t remember ever seeing the elder Holmes with a horrified expression on his face before. It was enough of a surprise to spur John into action. Three steps were all it took to bring him to Sherlock’s side, and he held his breath as he reached out to touch the pale shoulder, afraid that he would find him cold and past their help. A sigh escaped, though, as his palm made contact with warm flesh. 

“He’s still alive,” he called out as he put the med kit on the floor and began to quickly assess Sherlock’s injuries. There was no time to do a thorough exam, but it was clear there was a lot of internal damage. Fortunately, the blood seemed to come mostly from the welts; the skin had broken over several of them, but none of the cuts appeared to be dangerously deep.

“I’m going to need to sit him upright,” he said quietly. Maks crouched down next to Sherlock and wrapped his arms under Sherlock’s. Despite his best efforts, when Maks lifted Sherlock upright, a hoarse scream tore from his pale lips and echoed around the room. John bit his lip hard as he stared at Sherlock’s chest. If anything, the damage to his front was worse than his back.

“He’s probably got broken ribs,” John muttered to himself as he looked over the battered body. “We aren’t going to be able to move him far in this condition.”

“Calling Alex now. He’ll have to meet us at the door instead of the road,” Maks replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket and headed towards the hallway. “You have about three minutes, John, to patch him up enough to move him. We have to be ready the second Alex gets here.” John nodded, his attention already back on Sherlock.

John pulled a syringe of morphine from his kit and hesitated for a moment, but he really had no choice. He knew the drug could kill Sherlock, but they had to be able to move him and there was no way they could do that unless they gave him something for the pain. He slipped the drug into a vein on Sherlock’s arms and then turned to prepping him so he could be moved.

The next few minutes passed in a tense silence; John worked furiously to bind the most visible of Sherlock’s wounds; they were lucky, he supposed, that there were no deep puncture wounds that might open further if they moved him. Just as he’s finishing up binding his ribs, John looks up at Sherlock’s face and is shocked to see his eyes open. The pale eyes weren’t focused, but it was the first sign of life he had given since they had moved him upright.

“Hold on, Sherlock,’ John whispered, putting his hand on Sherlock’s throat to check his pulse again. It was slightly better than it had been a few minutes ago, but it still felt thready. “We’re getting you out of here. Just hold on.”

Sherlock blinked slowly a few times, and he looked at John like he was nothing more than an illusion. After a few blinks, though, his eyes drifted further shut and he tried to open his mouth.

“You’re not really here.” Sherlock’s words were so quiet, they were hard to hear and John’s heart clenched at the deadened tone. He sounded completely convinced that he was hallucinating. 

“Yes we are, Sherlock,” he replied as he carefully pulled a loose hoodie over Sherlock’s back and started easing his arms through the sleeves. “Mycroft, Maks and I are all here and we’re bringing you home.”

Sherlock didn’t respond and as John watched, his eyes slid closed again. John felt frantically for a pulse and just managed to find it when the sound of footsteps in the hallway drew his attention back to the doorway.

“Time to leave. Alex is on his way back, but he thinks the two men might only be a few minutes behind him.” John packed his kit away while Petr and Mikael moved on either side of Sherlock. Lifting Sherlock up onto his feet caused more cries of pain, but it wasn’t enough to bring him back to consciousness. The two men threw Sherlock’s arms over their shoulders and wrapped their arms around his hips to guide him along.

They started to make their way out of the basement as quickly as possible, but with Sherlock supported between Petr and Mikael and not bearing any of his own weight, they couldn’t move quickly. It took long, painful minutes to manoeuvre Sherlock up the stairs - each step up jarred another tortured moan from those dry lips. John could barely stand listening to his cries of pain - but there wasn’t anything else he could do.

“This way,” Maks said at the top of the stairs, gesturing towards the corner of the building nearest them. John frowned as he followed, before realizing that there was another door in this corner. Maks slipped the lock open and gestured for them all to wait while he peeked outside. John couldn’t see from where he stood near the door frame - but it didn’t sound like Alex had arrived yet. It was too quiet outside.

John grew steadily nervous as the seconds ticked by. What if Alex was waiting at the other door? What if he had been intercepted or arrested? He was trying hard not think of the consequences of being caught deep in Russia trying to free a man they already thought was a spy.

Just as he was about to suggest someone go check the other door, the unmistakable rumble of a diesel engine broke the silence. Maks pulled the door almost completely closed, peering out through a miniscule crack, like a child trying to catch a glimpse of Father Christmas. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Maks sighed with relief and pushed the door open.

Craning his head around the door frame, John felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw the plain white van pull up right next to the door with Alex behind the wheel. Maks and John watched as he pulled a sharp turn and backed the van up as close to the door as possible.

Loading Sherlock into the van was almost as painful as bringing him up the stairs. The only benefit was that the morphine seemed to be working; he was more relaxed than when they had first found him. He wasn’t capable of moving by himself, but he at least wasn’t fighting Petr and Mikael as they lifted him into the back of the van.

Just as they were finished, though, the sound of another engine broke the silence. John and Maks whipped their heads around, but the engine was still a distance away. John jumped in the back of the van, which was even more crowded than before with Sherlock laying down the middle of the floor. Maks slammed the door shut and ran to the front, while John shucked his pack into Mycroft’s lap and knelt with his gun drawn, looking through the back window of the van.

John heard Maks wrench the front passenger door open and jump in; as soon as he was in the seat, Alex started moving the van. John held his breath, his eyes glued to the gate, desperately searching for any signs of the returning van. The van moved away from the gate and John held his breath as the van pulled around the far side of one of the other buildings before Alex cut the engine. They were completely hidden from sight of the gate and the garage, which was both good and bad.

Maks must have thought so too, because John heard him slip out of the van. John watched as he edged towards the corner of the building. The engine noise suddenly got louder, which made John look frantically around before he realized it must have been the van clearing the trees on the other side of the clearing. There was no sign that they realized another group of people were here.

The next few minutes were as tense as John could ever remember in a combat situation. The engine noise finally cut out, and John swore he could hear the men still continuing their argument from before, even through the metal walls of the van. The sound of a metal door slamming echoed in the afternoon stillness and then everything went blissfully quiet. John turned around just as Maks jumped back in the car and pulled the door shut. 

“Get us moving. We don’t have long.”

Alex didn’t need to be told twice. John didn’t even have time to brace himself before the engine was running and the van was backing up towards the front of the complex again. John held his breath, peering through the back window as the van headed towards the gate. Fortunately, the agents hadn’t bothered to close it. 

John took a deep breath as the van started to disappear into the woods, but his relief was cut short as the other engine roared to life. Up in the front of the van, Maks cursed as well, turning in his seat to stare out the windows. Sure enough, moments later, the other van came into sight. Alex slammed on the gas and the van started to bounce around the ruts of the road. John didn’t think they could go on like this for long. They’d end up in a ditch or worse in a matter of moments. 

“Get your heads down!” he shouted as he raised his gun and pointed it at the window in front of him. He pulled the trigger, and the glass shattered; the sound of the shot deafened him momentarily and his vision swam slightly. It took a minute to regain his senses, and by that time, the other van was almost right on top of them. 

John took a deep breath, aimed and pulled the trigger. The driver’s side wheel of the other van exploded and the vehicle immediately began to swerve. It was a matter of seconds before the van went completely sideways and crashed head-on into the trees. John aimed again and shot, this time scoring a direct hit near the gas tank.

A loud crack echoed from outside their van, but John stayed focused on his target. Within seconds of the crash, a fire erupted underneath the bonnet. He watched as they sped away, but there wasn’t any sign that the two men chasing them had survived the crash. He didn’t see either of the doors open and even before they lost sight of the van, it was almost completely engulfed in flames.

“John!” Mycroft shouted, a strange note in his voice. John started to turn to look at him, but froze when the motion caused pain to explode over his shoulder and side. He looked down, shock rolling through him as he realized he had been hit. His shoulder was on fire and blood was dripping from a hole in his right shoulder. He heard other people talking, but he couldn’t make out the words as the world slowly went black around the edges and he collapsed against the wall of the van.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... I'm sorry? I know, I know. I finally got an update done in less than a month, only to leave John with a gunshot wound and you with a giant cliffhanger. But on the plus side.. they rescued Sherlock! But, to quote Ocean's Eleven "even if you make it out of the casino, you're still in the middle of the fucking desert!" There's still a ways to go before they reach safety.
> 
> As always, thanks for all the support, comments, corrections and gentle nudges! I really appreciate them, especially as I get closer to wrapping this monster of a first story up. I think there's one or two more main chapters left and then an epilogue. It all depends. 
> 
> I hope those who celebrate it had a Happy Easter! And just think, in a few weeks, we'll get the fun of setlock all over again! Someone's curls are almost grown back, so it must be really happening. Hurray!


	35. Chapter 35

John was jolted back to consciousness by the pain that shot up his arm when he collapsed onto the floor of the van. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. Even through his coat, he could feel the sticky warmth of his blood as it seeped from bullet wound. At least, he assumed a bullet had hit him. There had definitely been the sound of returning gunfire as he had tried to shoot out their tyres and there were a few new holes in the far wall of the van. Fortunately, they were all located towards the top of the wall, well out of the range of the rest of the people crowded back here.

“John!” He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears and the wind coming in through the broken window, but John looked around as he thought he heard Mycroft call his name.

The look on Mycroft’s face tore his mind off the pain in his shoulder for a minute; John honestly couldn’t remember ever seeing such a look of pure panic in Mycroft’s face. A quick glance around the cargo area showed a similar expression on everyone’s face. Well, everyone who was conscious anyway, John thought wryly. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tried to reassure everyone, but they didn’t look like they believed him. Their looks of concern only increased when the van hit the deepest pothole yet and John couldn’t quite bite back another moan as he slammed back into the sidewall again. He just shook his head at them, wincing slightly as the motion caused his vision to fad around the edges.

After a few seconds, John’s training as a soldier began to kick back in. His wound didn’t feel life threatening, the blood flow had slowed to a trickle and his vision had cleared, so he turned his attention back to their immediate situation. Sherlock was stretched out on his back down the length of the van floor. John couldn’t tell if he was conscious from this far away, but he didn’t appear to be in immediate distress. Mycroft was crouched awkwardly over Sherlock’s head, obviously trying to shield him from any debris and the wind that whipped through the blown-out window. One of Mycroft’s hands was pressed firmly against Sherlock’s throat, directly over his pulse, which John found reassuring. Mycroft might not have much medical training, but if Sherlock’s heart started to struggle, at least they would have some warning.

Fortunately, it looked like Sherlock and himself were the only people who had been injured. Petr was seated on John’s left, turned towards the front of the van as he rummaged through John’s pack; John hoped he was looking for the med kit so they could do something about his shoulder. Meanwhile, Mikael was next to Mycroft on the other side of the van, facing the rear of the van as he kept an eye on the road behind him.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily, his head resting back against the van wall. He needed to figure out how badly his shoulder had been hit, but it would be much easier if they weren’t bouncing down a rutted back road in the middle of the Russian countryside. Looking down at his shoulder, he couldn’t see anything other than a hole in the black material of his coat; the fabric around the hole was shiny where the blood had soaked through.

A quiet sigh of relief passed over his lips as John discovered he could move the fingers in his right hand without much difficulty. He could still remember waking up in the field hospital in Afghanistan and being unable to manage any type of fine muscle movements in his left hand. It had been his first clue that his life as an Army surgeon was over. John forced his eyes back open; he couldn’t afford to fall unconscious right now. They certainly didn’t need two people who needed to be carried while they were trying to find safety.

John blinked the world back into focus and took a couple deep breaths. He was just about to use his good hand to pull his jacket away from the wound so he could see just how bad it was when the whole van shook violently. He looked up sharply, his heart frozen in his throat as he stared at the fireball that was visible through the blown-out window.

\---

Maks was frantically searching through the glove box looking for the map he had shoved in there as they left the garage that morning. They needed a place to hide; the men who had been holding Sherlock were sure to have notified the local authorities by now. Even if their pursuers hadn’t notified anyone, they were likely to be arrested just because the condition of the van would raise police suspicions. With a shot-out back window and who knew what other damage to the outside of the van, there was little to no chance that they wouldn’t be stopped by the authorities.

But just as his hand closed on the heavy paper map at the bottom of the glove box, the van was rocked by an explosion behind them. He jerked his head around, staring as he caught site of the large fireball coming from the place where the other van had crashed into the trees.

“Shit!” Alexi muttered, his eyes glued to the rear view mirror.

“There’s no way that’s going to go unnoticed,” Max agreed, tension growing in the pit of his stomach as he tried to think of a plan fast. They were only a few kilometres from the small village they had passed through on the way to the chateau. Even if no one else had felt the blast, the smoke from the fire would be clearly visible over the tree line in a matter of minutes. He felt the van shudder on the rough road as Alex sped up as fast as he dared on the rough road.

“Do you know a place we can hide?” he asked as he unfolded the map in his lap. Unfortunately, there just weren’t a lot of roads in this part of Russia. The inhospitable terrain and dense forest in the area severely limited their options for escaping notice.

“As long as we can get past the village, I know a place,” Alex replied distractedly, the majority of his attention focused on the road in front of them. It was obviously taking everything he had to keep the van on the road at this speed, especially given the number of ruts and potholes. Maks didn’t bother to ask for more information – Alex obviously didn’t need the distraction of an interrogation right now. 

The next few minutes were extremely tense inside the van. Maks kept studying the map, hoping he could find another way back to the coast, but there was really only the one road and trying to go cross-country with a man in Sherlock’s condition was just out of the question. 

They were almost back to the town when they heard the first sounds of approaching sirens. Maks looked up from the map, studying the forest around them, desperately searching for a glimpse of whatever rescue vehicles were headed their way; he was so focused on looking for signs of approaching vehicles through the dense forest that he was completely taken by surprise when Alex jerked the wheel suddenly, sending the van careening down an overgrown path that had suddenly appeared on the right side of the road.

“What the hell?” he demanded as he struggled to keep from crashing into the space between the two front seats as the van started crashing across the rough ground.

“This was our one chance to get off that road before the cops saw us,” Alex replied tersely, staring in the rear view mirror. As soon as the road they had been on disappeared from sight, he slammed on the brakes. There was a lot of groaning and shouting from the people in the back of the van, but Maks ignored them. Alex was had been right; no sooner had they stopped when he caught sight of flashing lights through the trees behind them. Everyone in the van seemed to hold their breath for a minute; fortunately, it was less than a minute before the noise began to fade and they were surrounded once more by the quiet of the forest.

“Do you know where this goes? And how did you even know this was here?” Maks demanded, a little incredulous at their luck in avoiding the people rushing towards the burning wreck. 

“It’s been a long time since I lived here, but my friends and I used this road when we were up to no good and looking for a place to hide from the cops. This path skirts the north edge of the village.” Maks frowned, realizing he knew next to nothing about Alex’s history before he had been recruited as a contact six months ago. It was one of a million questions he hoped he had the time to ask once Mycroft, Sherlock and John were safely back in London. 

They waited for another couple of minutes in silence, but they didn’t hear any more sirens approaching. Finally, Alex started the engine and began moving them cautiously forward. Maks began took stock of the forest around them. They seemed to be following what could only optimistically be called a trail. There was nothing more than a set of old tyre tracks in front of them and more often than not, those tracks almost completely disappeared beneath the undergrowth.

“What about that hiding spot? Can we get there from here?” Maks asked, trying to keep on top of their still-evolving plan.

“An old friend’s family owns a house on the other side of the village,” Alex replied distractedly; his focus was still glued to the track in front of them. “They moved away a few years ago, but they were never able to sell the property since it’s in the middle of the nowhere.”

“Sounds promising,” Maks replied, before turning his attention to the woods outside his window. The next ten minutes passed in a tense silence, with the only sounds coming from inside the van were mutters and expletives that came from the cargo area whenever they hit a particularly deep rut. A particularly sharp bump and a very loud string of interesting curses made Maks glanced over his shoulder to see just what was going on back there. Mycroft was directly behind him, looking like he was crouched protectively over Sherlock’s head while Petr, who was seated behind Alex, appeared to be tending to John. Maks frowned as worry blossomed once more in the pit of his stomach. When had John been hurt?

Fortunately, the forest around them remained empty as Alex drove down the path as quickly as he dared. Maks kept trying to see if he could see the smoke from the van explosion in the sky behind then but he just couldn’t see anything through the dense tree canopy. Eventually, the trees around them began to thin out, which meant they could see the road in the distance in front of them. 

Alex stopped the van just before the last line of trees to make sure there was no one in sight before he brought the van back up onto the tarmac. Maks breathed a sigh of relief as the van began to speed back up; the sooner they reached their hiding place, the better. Now that they were out of the trees, he could just see the dark grey pillar of smoke that was coming from the other side of the village.

Luckily, it was only a few minutes before Alex turned right onto gravel driveway that had almost faded into the grass on the shoulders of the road. Grasses and weeds had grown up through the gravel and the driveway had deteriorated so much that it was almost as rough as the earlier trail through the woods. Once more, their slow progress was marked by the sound of grumbling from the passengers in the back of the van. 

The trip down the drive stretched out over a long few minutes through an increasingly dense forest. Maks breathed a quiet sigh of relief when they finally pulled into a small clearing. In front of them stood a farmhouse that had obviously seen better days; the roof was sagging in a few areas and one of the downstairs windows has been broken. Maks felt the knot of tension that had been present in his stomach since they had first heard the sirens start to unwind. This house was so isolated that it was highly unlikely that anyone would stumble across them here. 

Alex drove past the farmhouse and headed towards a large, ramshackle barn that sat a couple hundred feet behind the house. Once they had reached the door that was hidden behind the house, Maks jumped out of the van and ran to let the van inside the barn. The door was heavy and extremely rusty; it was fairly obvious from the condition and the loud squeaking protest the hinges gave, no one had been inside in at least a few years.

Once the van was hidden inside the barn, Maks pulled the door shut. Beams of light filtered through various holes in the roof and walls. It looked like a scene from a noir spy film. There were a few mouldy bales of straw piled in one of the far corners, but other than that, the barn was completely empty. After the van engine had been switched off, silence descended in the barn and the only noise they could hear was the chirping of distant birds.

Alex appeared beside him just as he was pulling the back door of the van open. As the interior light switched on, Maks took a second to look over the condition of everyone else in their party. 

It looked like Sherlock might be unconscious again. He was lying in the middle of the floor, dividing the cargo compartment in two. Maks could see a slight rise and fall in his chest, which was good, even though he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face since it was shielded by Mycroft’s chest. 

“Where are we?” Mycroft demanded as he shifted so he was seated against the passenger seat. No doubt his legs were killing him if he had held that position for most of their trip. 

“Abandoned farmhouse just north of the village,” Alex replied as he helped Mikael climb down from the back of the van. 

“We needed a place to hide. Once their van exploded, it was just too risky to keep driving in a van with a blown-out window and bullet holes,” Maks explained briefly. His explanation was cut short, however, by a pained groan from John as he tried to stand in the back of the van and ended up collapsing back against the van wall. 

“What happened?” Maks demanded as he reached out to steady John before he could fall out of the van.

“Got hit by a stray bullet,” he answered faintly, leaning back against the van wall as the colour drained somewhat from his face. “Just as I hit their front tyre, I felt something rip into my shoulder.”

“How bad are you injured?”

“Don’t know yet. Petr just found the med kit when you guys decided to do some off-roading. Didn’t want to make it worse by trying to look at it with all that jostling.”

“Anyone else injured?” 

“No, the rest of the shots missed everyone” Petr responded as he handed the med kit to Maks and pointed to the scattered holes in the opposite wall before climbing awkwardly over Sherlock’s prone form and making his way out of the van.

“Good.” Maks replied as he helped John scoot forward. It would be easier to look at his wound if he could find a way to sit on the tailgate. 

“What’s our next step?” Mycroft demanded. 

“We are going to hide here for a few hours while we tend to Sherlock and John. We’ll also need to find another vehicle and at least one person should go up towards the road to keep watch,” Maks replied, his attention focused on John as he started to peel back the layers of clothing to get a glimpse of the wound. He hid a wince at the moan of pain that John couldn’t contain as he accidentally put pressure on the wound. 

“Our first chance to rendezvous with Boris is tonight just after midnight at a pier a few miles north of the harbour where he left us,” Maks continued as he worked at cleaning John’s shoulder. It was a small bullet wound, and most worryingly, it looked like the shell was still in his shoulder. There was no exit wound on his back. He frowned, considering his options. It didn’t look like John was in immediate danger, but leaving the bullet in his body was dangerous and could lead to infection. Of course, it wasn’t like they had any surgical supplies with them.

Behind him, Maks heard Alex, Petr and Mikael talking in hushed voices, but he ignored them while he carefully washed the blood off John’s shoulder.

“The bullet must still be in there,” John commented through clenched teeth.

“That’s what I think,” Maks confirmed. “What do you recommend? It should come out…”

“But we just have a med kit,” John replied, cutting over Maks’ words. Maks didn’t object; John was the one with the medical degree, after all. 

“It doesn’t feel nearly as serious as the last time I was shot,” he continued finally. “Just clean it as well as we can for now and bandage it up. As long as we get to somewhere safe with a hospital soon, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” Maks replied. “Let me just talk with the others for a few minutes then I’ll be back to patch you up.” John nodded his head before looking back over his shoulder at Sherlock and Maks walked away towards the corner where Alex, Petr and Mikael were conferring. As he walked up, Alex turned towards him with a small smile.

“I’m going to get us another vehicle,” he explained as Maks joined their circle. “I know another one I can borrow that’s not far from here. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.” Maks glanced down at his watch; it was mid afternoon, so that left them some time. It would take them a little more an hour to make it to the beach.

“Petr and I will go keep watch near the road,” Mikael continued once Alex had finished explaining his plan. “Alex has described the van for us, so we’ll keep to the trees and make sure no one else is coming. You stay here with them and get them ready to travel.” It was a good plan, Maks thought, and after a second, the three men headed out of the barn.

Maks took a deep breath before he headed back to the van where John was waiting. He felt uneasy, letting Alex go off on his own, but there just wasn’t any other option. Anyone who wasn’t familiar in the area would draw too much attention, so he couldn’t send Petr or Mikael with him. 

Unfortunately, there was little more he could do right now but wait and hope Alex was successful in getting them a vehicle that could get everyone safely to the beach before Boris arrived at midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your patience as I fight through some writers block with the end of this story. I've known how the rescue would go for over a year now - why is it suddenly so hard to put these final plots points into writing? 
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading and commenting. I really do like hearing from everyone!


	36. Chapter 36

The colour of sky as the sun sank towards the horizon kept drawing Maks’ eye. He was sitting outside the barn to keep an eye out for anyone approaching their hiding place, but the changing colours in the sky kept distracting him. The clouds had cleared as evening approached and just before the sun reached the treetops, the sky had suddenly turned from pale blue to light pink before darkening to an almost startlingly scarlet. As he watched the colour change, Maks couldn’t help remembering seeing a sky that particular shade in Ilyich a month or so ago, on the morning he had stood on the seafront waiting for Boris.

Back then, the blood red sky had sent shivers down his spine as his grandfather’s old fishing lore had come back to him for the first time in years. The red sky that morning had indeed been an omen for just how badly the mission would go from that point. Tonight, though, the other half of that tale kept coming back to him. _Red sky at night - sailor’s delight._ He could only hope that the old fisherman’s tale would hold as true now as it had then. They could definitely use as many good omens as they could get their hands on, if they were all going to get out of Russia safely.

All the problems they were still facing kept running through Maks’ mind as he watched the woods and the sky. Alex was still off somewhere attempting to locate a new vehicle they could use. Mikael and Petr were also absent – presumably still watching the road for anyone who approached their hiding place. Maks hadn’t heard from them at all, which he had to assume was a good sign. Just as the anxiety began to swell to an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, though, the phone in his hand beeped. He took a couple of deep breathes before reading the text.

_Success. Will be back shortly after dark._

Maks breathed a sigh of relief as he stared down at the screen for a second before looking back at the trees. Alex had been able to find another vehicle, one that hopefully wouldn’t attract immediate attention from the police. That was one major obstacle cleared; he wasn’t surprised that Alex wasn’t going to try to pick them up before dark, either. The clearing they were in was a good half a mile from the highway, but Maks had still been able to hear the echo of safety sirens from time to time as the afternoon had dragged on. Unfortunately, Maks had little doubt that the increased police presence would continue after dark, which would only make the drive to the coast even more dangerous.

Unfortunately, the larger than average number of policemen about was only the beginning of their problems. Both Sherlock and John’s conditions had worsened as the hours had ticked past. John’s gunshot wound might not have been immediately life-threatening, but he needed more medical attention than they could give him, especially with no electricity or running water. The wound was still bleeding too; a slow but steady stream had forced them to change the dressing twice since they had arrived. He might have fallen into a restless sleep not long after the last time Maks had changed the bandages, but he had steadily grown paler as the bleeding continued.

Sherlock was in even worse shape than John. Fortunately, all the small cuts on his chest and back had stopped bleeding since John had bandaged him up back in that basement. But he hadn’t regained consciousness since then and his normally pale skin had taken on a reddish flush that was noticeable even with all the bruises that covered his body. Every so often, he would start to moan and thrash about, as if he was going to regain consciousness but each episode lasted only a minute or so before he grow quiet and still once more. From the location and severity of the bruises all over his body, Maks knew he had to have internal injuries; he only hoped that none of would become life-threatening during the rest of their escape, because there was next to nothing they could to help him.

Suddenly, the barn door squeaked, breaking the stillness that had settled over the barn and causing Maks to jump slightly. He glanced over his shoulder towards the noise and frowned slightly as Mycroft stepped out of the darkening barn and sank to the ground next to him. What Maks saw wasn’t very reassuring - Mycroft looked as tired as Maks felt, with dark circles under his eyes and a greyish tint to his skin. There was some straw stuck in his hair and his clothes were creased beyond repair and streaked with dirt and blood. Maks wondered for a second if Mycroft had ever appeared so dishevelled before; somehow, he didn’t think Mycroft had ever looked less than completely composed even as a child. He allowed himself a small chuckle before growing serious again as Mycroft settled at his side.

“How are they?” he asked softly as he looked back towards the trees. This was the first time Mycroft had voluntarily left Sherlock's side since their arrival. Several times during the afternoon, in fact, Maks had glanced in the barn and caught Mycroft clinging to his brother’s hand, almost like he could keep Sherlock with them by sheer force of will.

“They both seem to be developing fevers,” Mycroft admitted quietly, unable to hide the thread of worry in his voice. Maks’ stomach clenched as Mycroft voiced his own suspicions and fears. They both knew that fevers meant trouble; without the appropriate treatment, both men could find themselves in serious trouble very quickly. They were out of time; if they didn’t meet the boat tonight, Maks had the sinking suspicion that both men would be in serious trouble before Boris could make it back to get them.

“Alex texted a little bit ago,” Maks volunteered mostly to fill in the tense silence that had fallen between them. “He’s found another van but there’s a lot of police in the area because of the crash. He’s going to lay low until dark and then come get us.”

“Will that give us enough time to reach the rendezvous point?” Mycroft stared down at his hands for a minute before whispering. “I don’t think either Sherlock or John could wait a full day for medical attention if we miss it.”

“Yes. We’re meeting Boris at a different wharf. This one’s a little further to the north of the one he dropped us off at. It’s a bit more secluded and completely out of sight of the main harbour. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to reach it from here.” Maks frowned slightly as he refused to voice the thought that even if they met Boris with no problems, that didn’t mean they were safe. It would take hours to sail back to Odessa, in a small fishing boat on potentially rough seas with two injured men who shouldn't be exposed to the elements for hours at a time.

“Could Boris take us south instead of straight back to Odessa?” Mycroft asked so softly that Maks almost missed the question.

“Yes. We’re close to the edge of his normal fishing range, but it wouldn’t be completely unusual for him to go further from Odessa. Did you have a particular destination in mind?”

“If I’m not mistaken, we are fairly close to the Georgian border.” Maks bit back a snort before nodding; he would eat his shorts before believing that Mycroft Holmes had ever been mistaken about something as simple as geography. They were only an hour or so away from the border in good conditions. “There’s a military base just outside Sokhumi where my plane could collect us.” 

Maks spent a moment trying to think through the variables. If they were going to bring the plane to them, the ideal solution was to bring it straight to where they were. Unfortunately, there was no way they could bring a British plane within Russian airspace without causing an international incident. His smile turned a bit wry as he finally responded.

“Britain is on better terms with Georgia than Russia?” he asked, even though he already suspected the answer.

“As the tensions between Russia and the rest of the world have grown, her neighbours have been seeking better relations with European nations,” came the dry reply.

“I get it. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all.”

Mycroft actually winced at that cliché, which made Maks chuckle in response. To someone with as nuanced a world view as Mycroft Holmes, that trite phrase was probably the diplomatic equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard.

“I see no reason why Boris couldn’t travel south to Sokhumi and drop the three of you off there. How are you going to contact your pilot so the plane is there waiting for you?” 

He frowned as a small, black object appeared out of Mycroft’s pocket. That frown deepened to a scowl as he recognized it as a flip phone. Maks shot a disapproving look at Mycroft; they are ruled out carrying British tech on this trip right from the start of their planning, in case they were captured. Carrying something like that - which would easily identify them as foreign agents - had put everyone here at risk.

“It’s a one-time only use device, specifically designed to be easily destroyed in case of capture,” Mycroft replied irritatedly, clearly insulted by Maks’ unspoken accusation. “But after everything I’ve gone through to ensure Sherlock’s safety - did you think I wouldn’t have a way to call in a rescue if necessary?” Maks smiled faintly and shook his head slightly. He wasn’t happy that Mycroft had kept the phone a secret, but he also wasn't surprised that Mycroft had plans he hadn't shared with anyone else on the mission. Without another word, Mycroft got up from the ground and headed back into the barn and Maks heard the sound of a soft conversation start just seconds later. He didn’t bother to try and follow it from here; instead, he turned back to the forest, hoping that they would remain quiet until Alex arrived.

Maks stayed outside until the final traces of the sunset had faded from the sky before he moved inside the barn to start preparing for their departure. It took only a few minutes to repack all their supplies and stack the packs near the rear door of the van.

“Have you figured how we’re going to move Sherlock? Without disturbing his injuries too much, I mean?” he asked as he walked up to where Mycroft stood next to the open rear of the van.

“That door over there,” Mycroft replied, jerking his head towards an interior door that separated an old grain store room from the rest of the barn. “The hinges look pretty weak. We can use it as a stretcher.”

“That will make getting him onto the boat easier, too.” Maks replied as he moved to examine the door. Sure enough, the pins were in poor shape and it was a matter of only moments to pop them out and carry the door back towards the van. He and Mycroft couldn’t move Sherlock easily by themselves, so he propped it up against the side of the van so it was ready when the others returned.

Just then, the sound of a loud automotive engine broke the silence. Maks jumped at the sudden noise; he had grown used to the almost oppressive silence that had surrounded the barn all afternoon. He peaked out of the barn and breathed a sigh of relief as a dark van nudged its way around the farmhouse. He could just make the shapes of three people sitting in the cable. A smile broke out over his face as Mikael and Petr jumped out cab once the van stopped in front of the door and the three of them watched from the side as Alex performed a bit of fancy manoeuvring and backed the van into the barn and parked it near the other van.

The next ten minutes were a flurry of activity. Alex gathered up their supplies and moved them into the new van before checking to make sure they weren’t leaving anything behind. The rest of them focused on moving Sherlock. It took Mycroft, Maks, Petr and Mikael several tense minutes to shuffle him slowly and carefully onto the wooden door. Since they didn’t know where all his injuries were, Maks considered it a success that Sherlock only moaned in pain a couple of times while they were moving him. Thankfully, the door turned out to be perfect for a makeshift stretcher and it was a quick matter to lift the door by the corners and carry Sherlock over to the new van. The new one was slightly smaller than the old one, but the cargo area in the back was just long enough for the door to slide straight down the middle.

As soon as Sherlock was loaded, Maks went back to look at John. He was relieved to see that John had been woken by the commotion; they were fresh out of makeshift stretchers. By the time he had helped John to stand and half-carried him over to the other van, the other men had all climbed in already. Mycroft had positioned himself next to Sherlock’s head on the driver’s side of the van, while Petr and Mikael sat on the passenger side. It really was an extremely tight fit with all five men in the back, but Maks got John settled in next to Mycroft and made sure he was as comfortable as possible before slamming the rear doors shut and climbing up beside Alex in the cab.

\---

The light clicked off in the back of the van as soon as Alex started the engine and Mycroft clenched his jaw firmly as yet another wave of tension settled over him. He hadn’t reached his position in the government by being prone to fits of panic, but being trapped in the dark in the back of the van in the middle of the Russian countryside was pushing him right to his limits. The back doors of the van did have windows, but all he could see out of them were the shadows of the top of the trees and a few stars that were starting to appear in the night sky. If he had more time to plan, he would have put John in first so he could keep an eye on the road behind them.

The drive back to the road was extremely uncomfortable. The path was little more than a series of deep ruts and potholes that kept slamming the men in the sides of the van and each other. After a couple of really sharp jolts, Sherlock cried out, a tinge of fear in his voice that had Mycroft clutching his hand even more firmly, but he didn't make any other noises. It was a long few minutes up that path, but finally, the van came to a stop. Everyone in the back was quiet and tense while they sat there, but just as Mycroft was just about to ask what was going on, they started moving again. Seconds later, the van bumped its way onto the tarmac and the vehicle began to climb to highway speeds. The sigh of relief that went around the back of the van when the ride smoothed out would have been comical if their situation wasn’t still so dangerous. But their relief was short-lived; the darkness in the back of the van only served to increase their feeling off encroaching danger. Mycroft could barely make out the outlines of the other men and the only indication that Sherlock was still alive was the warmth of the fingers clenched in his.

The next ten minutes passed in complete silence and all of them strained to hear the sounds of any approaching vehicles. But then, an unexpected jolt from a pothole made both John and Sherlock cry out in pain. Mycroft cursed that he couldn't see anything in the dark, but a second later, the glow of a mobile phone lit up the cargo area. Mikael was holding his phone over Sherlock's head; his eyes were still closed, so Mycroft couldn't tell if he had actually regained consciousness. John was still awake, though, and was clutching his wounded shoulder. Mycroft started to shift so he could take a look, but John just shook his head and closed his eyes. It was just as well; Mycroft wasn't exactly sure he could do anything for John back here.

Just as Mycroft was trying to relax, however, Sherlock let out another cry of distress. Mycroft's eyes shot back down towards his brother's face and his heart caught in his throat as he realized that those pale eyes were open.

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly. The back of the van was so tense, it felt like they could cut the air with a knife.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Sherlock mumbled frantically as he tried to cringe away from the light. “I’m not who you think I am!”

“’Lockie,” Mycroft whispered, his heart breaking as he detected the fear and pain in Sherlock’s voice. “You’re safe, brother. John and I are here to take you home.”

“Just kill me already,” came the almost desperate plea. “Just kill me if you aren’t going to believe me.” It took Mycroft a second to realize that he had tears running down his cheek. But sadness was quickly replaced by anger. If those two men hadn’t already died in a fiery crash, Mycroft would have loved nothing better than to hunt those two bastards down and tear them limb from limb with his bare hands.

“Sherlock…” John whispered, obviously trying to break through Sherlock's fear, but this time, there was no reply from the man in the middle. Mycroft stared down at his brother, worried by his lack of response. He could see Sherlock's chest moving slightly as he breathed, but it looked like he had fallen back unconscious again. The pain in his brother's voice ricocheted around in Mycroft's chest. What hell had his brother lived through?

Fortunately, the rest of the journey was mostly uneventful. The traffic on the roads in the countryside was light; they only occasionally heard the sound of another car heading in the opposite direction. There were only a couple of extremely tense minutes about halfway through the drive when the sound of a siren sounded in the distance and grew steadily louder. At least one police car must have been travelling in the other direction, as the back of the van was briefly illuminated by red and blue flashing lights. Everyone in the van seemed to hold their breath until the lights and the sounds had faded into the distance again.

When the van finally slid to a stop in the shadows of a barn near the wharf where Boris was to pick them up, Mycroft felt momentarily weak with relief as they all piled out of the back of the van. The drive from the clearing to here had taken a bit longer than Maks had estimated because by the time they had reached the edges of Dzhubga, the number of police cars on the streets was increasing by the mile. After a brief debate, Alex and Maks had decided that they would be better off skirting the edges of the town rather than taking the most direct route. Fortunately, even with the additional travel time, they were still here more than thirty minutes before Boris was due to meet them.

Once everyone had climbed out of the van, they had split up. Maks, Alex and Mycroft stood in the shadows of the building, trying to ignore the bracing wind that was cutting off the Black Sea and watching the horizon for the first signs of the boat. Mikael and Petr had gone to keep an eye on the road to make sure no one came up from behind them. John, who had managed to stay conscious during the entire trip somehow, was taking a look at Sherlock to see if they could do anything to make him more comfortable on the boat. 

The wait dragged on and on as they all kept an eye for anyone approaching by land or by sea. Mycroft jumped every time a tree branch in the nearby trees creaked in the wind or an owl hooted in the distance; he wasn’t normally given to bouts of paranoia, but standing there on the cold beach, each noise sounded like it was the first sign of approaching policemen. They weren't afraid to fight their way out, of course; each of them still had a gun close at hand. But the chances of them safely loading themselves and Sherlock on a boat in a firefight were so small, Mycrfot didn't even like to think about it. 

An audible sigh of relief escaped all three men when a flashing light appeared on the horizon. Once they had confirmed it was Boris, everyone converged on the van to shoulder their packs and make sure Sherlock and John were ready to be moved. Alex pulled John’s good arm across his shoulder while the other four healthy men grabbed corners of the door. It took only a few minutes to load Sherlock and all their equipment on the boat. As soon as Alex had jumped back onto the wharf, Maks and Mikael shoved the boat away from the dock and they were off. As the wharf disappeared back into the darkness and Boris turned the boat towards the south, Mycroft collapsed onto the floor next to Sherlock’s head. The fact that they were all alive and on this boat was almost his undoing.

\-----

Just as the eastern horizon was starting to brighten, a small plane began to taxi across a runway at a small military airfield in northern Georgia. Before they took off, Mycroft checked one last time to make sure the gurneys that held both John and Sherlock were secured before strapping himself into a seat at Sherlock's head. As the wheels left the ground, Mycroft closed his eyes as he tried to keep himself together. He was glad that neither John nor Sherlock were awake to see him as his shoulders shook and his hands trembled in relief. A metallic rattle brought his eyes back open as the plane levelled out and he took a quick glance around the cabin. Neither gurney had shifted during take off. 

The boat trip from Dzhubga to the military base had been both quiet and fast; they had been at sea less than an hour when the lights of the city had become visible on the horizon. Fortunately, Mycroft's pilot had encountered no difficulties in moving the plane and they had been meet on the beach by the base's medical staff. Sherlock and John had been examined by the base doctors. the bullet was indeed still in John's shoulder, but they had given him antibiotics and enough pain killers to knock him out for the flight. Both Mycroft and John had been fairly insistent that surgery could wait until they were back in England. Sherlock's injuries were indeed severe; he had signs of some internal bleeds as well as a couple of broken ribs. Fortunately, the doctors had agreed that there were no immediately life-threatening injuries and that once he had been sedated and a strong dose of antibiotics, it would be safe for him to be flown back to England for treatment. 

As the plane sliced through the murky blue pre-dawn sky, Mycroft allowed himself to completely relax and tune out. For the first time in decades, his mind was almost completely blank. There were no pressing political manoeuvres to plan or plots to create to keep the Empire safe and thriving. He couldn’t even bring himself to worry about the mystery of Jim Moriarty’s supposed magical re-emergence from the grave. That mystery would have to be completely resolved before Sherlock could be considered truly a free man, but just right now, Mycroft couldn't find the mental strength to start wrangling the clues.

For the first time in his adult life, he couldn’t find the desire to think about anything other than the fact that they had done it. They – John and himself – had managed to not only find Sherlock in time, but bring him to safety.

The noise of the airplane faded into the background as Mycroft sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t even bother trying to stop the tears that had started flowing down his cheeks again. As he listened to the slow, steady beeping of the heart monitors, they flowed freely as shudders of relief ran up and down his spine. 

It seemed almost a miracle that he had been successful. But he had been. He was finally bringing Sherlock home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And everyone take a deep breath. After more than a year, we are finally here. Mycroft and John got Sherlock out of Russia. Thoughts? Comments? Corrections? Let me know! Only an epilogue left to go. There have been so many times I didn't know if I could get this story this far. The last scene in this chapter has been mostly written since before I posted Chapter 1. It was a promise to myself that I'd get here. I hope the last of the escape holds up to everything that came before it.
> 
> One quick note - I'm by no means a medical expert so I have no idea if flying in Sherlock's case is actually a wise idea or not. But leaving him endlessly in Georgia doesn't seem like something that Mycroft would consider. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading! Look for the epilogue sometime in the middle of July - I'm going on vacation next week, so I don't know how much time I'll have to write while I'm gone. 
> 
> Also - I do plan on doing more writing and spreading out to a couple of different fandoms. My tumblrs are the best place to keep up with what I'm doing now. My general, multi-fandom tumblr (http://amylaura76.tumblr.com/) and my writing tumblr (http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/).


	37. Chapter 37

Nothing made sense. The last thing Sherlock remembered was falling unconscious in that dank cellar with the words “the next time we see you, it will be to kill you” echoing in his ears as the smell of his blood filled his nostrils. Now his senses were completely useless; he felt like he was floating in some sort of completely dark limbo. No matter how much he strained and concentrated, he could see and hear nothing. He also couldn’t move; his limbs and chest felt weighted down. All of these factors combined to feel like he was completely cocooned in a very thick, sound-proofed blanket. His sense of smell was also a blank. The smells of that damp basement were missing, but no new aromas had taken their place. 

How long had he had been floating here in this bizarre limbo? There was abosolutely noway to tell if he had been here for hours or days. Could he have been druggd and moved to a new location without his knowledge? What if he had been moved into some other facility in Russia for more intensive interrogation? But just as panic was starting to tighten his chest, the darkness he was trapped in began to thicken and Sherlock felt his connection to the world fading. As he was dragged beneath the darkness, a new voice floated up in his memory, one that brought comfort instead of more panic. 

“Hold on, Sherlock. We’re getting you out of here.”

\----

Several more times, Sherlock floated back into that strange limbo where he was aware of the nothing that surrounded him. Each time, he found himself in the same position, unable to see, hear or smell anything. Mabye it was just wishful thinking, but Sherlock thought he was in that limbo for longer each time. He managed to hang onto the memory of John’s voice every time he came to, however, and that fact helped keep the panic about his situation at bay. Sherlock realized that it wasn’t a real memory, of course; it could easily be solace granted to him by his subconscious. But it felt real and right now, that was the only thing that mattered.

Finally, around the fourth time that he floated up towards consciousness, Sherlock realized that the darkness he was stuck in wasn’t quite as absolute this time. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the new details about his surroundings. It took a great deal of effort, but he found he could move his eyes from side to side slightly and he thought he could make out vague shapes in the darkness. But the amount of effort that little bit of progress had taken, left Sherlock feeling limp and exhausted as he slipped back under the complete blackness.

Sherlock lost track of the number of times he almost regained consciousness. With each occurrence now, however, he definitely could perceive greater detail in the darkness around him. He still had no idea where he was, but there was a looming shape off to his right and several smaller ones just off to his left. He could also pick up faint aromas as well; definitely not the mouldy air from the basement, but a faintly chemical smell that he just couldn’t place.

Finally, on what could have been the tenth or ten thousandth time, Sherlock heard something. It took a moment to register, because he had grown accustomed to the absolute silence he had existed in. But there it was; a faint, rhythmic beeping that he definitely hadn’t been able to hear until now. Where was it? What was causing it? Sherlock tried to turn his head, but the muscles still wouldn’t let him move his head more than a fraction of an inch. He gave up trying to move and just focused on listening. There was something soothing about the rhythm and Sherlock lay there listening, barely aware that it synced almost perfectly with his breathing.

After listening to the beeping for a few minutes (or maybe a few hours, Sherlock still was extremely uncertain about the passage of time), Sherlock realized something else. His eyes weren’t as heavy as they had been. He could move his head easier now, and when he concentrated, he could make his eyelids flutter slightly. How long had his eyes been closed? How had he been seeing shapes if he hadn’t opened his eyes? Those and several other pointless questions rustled through his mind for a while before he was able to shake them. As Sherlock took in these improvements, he became aware of other sounds, not just that faint beeping noise. He swore he could hear the sound of people talking in the distance, a whispered conversation where the words wouldn’t register over a sudden rushing sound in his ears.

He could feel himself start to slip back towards unconsciousness, exhausted from all the effort, but still, he pulled a deep breath into his lungs and, with an almighty effort, forced his eyelids open. The room around him was clouded in semi-darkness, but there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that he was indeed out of that dank basement, hopefully for good. He couldn’t make out many of the features of the room, but the beeping noise from earlier was louder now and definitely coming from his left side. Sherlock turned his head towards the noise, trying to identify the source and then froze when he heard the distant voices fall silent and a new voice break the silence.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” He knew that voice. He would have recognized John Watson’s voice anywhere, even though he had thought he would never hear it again. But why was John with him now? Was he just hallucinating again?

“Sherlock! Stay with me for a minute! Please?” John’s voice cut through Sherlock’s swirling thoughts. For a split second, he resisted opening his eyes. He was desperately afraid that this was just another hallucination and if he opened his eyes, he would just see empty space at his side where John should be.

“Sherlock, please,” John’s voice came again, sounding closer than it had been before. “Just look at me, please?” It took every bit of his flagging strength he could muster, but Sherlock forced his eyes back open and turned his head slightly towards his left side.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes settled on the fuzzy shape at his side; he struggled to bring it into focus, but Sherlock would now that silhouette anywhere. He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but he could only manage a quiet squeak.

“Don’t try to speak,” John said from his perch in a chair at the side of the bed. “You were intubated for weeks; just rest your throat.” Sherlock frowned as he tried to understand what John was saying; none of this made sense. A confused whine managed to escape from his throat, despite the lump that had risen at the sight of his best friend; it’s wasn’t much of a sound, but Sherlock was relieved when John easily picked up the source of his distress.

“You’re safe,” John reassured him, reaching out to grab Sherlock’s hand. It was only then that Sherlock realized that John’s right arm was bound in a sling and bandages covered his shoulder. “You’re in hospital in England. Mycroft, Maks and I rescued you from an abandoned estate in Russia.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat; John’s words started to stir memories of those few hellish days in the basement.

“Hey,” John said quickly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and cupping Sherlock’s face with his good hand. “Don’t think about it. You’re safe. You never have to go back to Russia.” Sherlock’s panic receded as he stared up into John’s lined face. There were still far too many gaps in his mental timeline of events; how long had he been in hospital? Why had John gone to Russia? Sherlock swallowed though, trying to force all his questions back into the recesses of his mind.

But then the edges of unconsciously began to creep back in. There was just too much information for his brain to process. Just before his eyes slip closed, though, he managed to bully his vocal cords into working. There’s one detail that just can’t be left until the next time he woke up.

“Stay?” he barely recognized his own voice and his throat burned from the effort of just forming that one simple word.

“Of course. Where would I go?” came the soft reply and Sherlock finally let himself fall asleep, the gentle heat of John’s palm still warming his jaw.

The next time he surfaced, Sherlock jerked awake with a start. Before he could focus on the dimly lit room around him, however, the idea that John had just been a figment of his imagination began to swirl around his head. His paranoia only increased when it took a several tries to blink the dimly-lit hospital room into focus. Finally, however, he could see well enough to scan the room around him. When he saw John was still nearby, curled up in the very uncomfortable-looking chair and dozing lightly, Sherlock almost cried in relief. It hadn’t been a mirage after all. John was here – wherever here was – so surely that meant he was safe.

As he lay there in the partial darkness, Sherlock’s observation skills started to kick in – and what they told him made his heart sink. Something terrible must have happened to John while he had been gone. Not only was his right shoulder heavily bandaged under his shirt and his arm supported by a sling, John was decidedly thinner than he had been back at Christmas. His usually trim frame was diminished significantly and even with his face relaxed in sleep, deep stress lines were etched on his face. Even in the low light in here, John’s complexion had a waxy tinge that spoke of stress and a deep-set grief. Could something have happened to Mary and the baby? Surely the universe couldn’t have been that cruel to John Watson.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John’s sleeping form for a moment to glance around the room. Relief flooded through him as he realized that he was in hospital, and if he could judge by the English words on the closest machine, he was possibly in the UK. But before he could learn any more, Sherlock turned his attention back to watching John. That felt more important than anything else right now.

Sherlock had no idea how long he lay there in the quiet room, watching the light change across John’s face before his eyes drifted back closed once more.

\----

Sherlock came awake to the sound of voices in his room. A spike of disappointment ran through him as he realized that neither of the voices belonged to John. He pried his eyes open and caught sight of two military doctors standing next to his bed, conferring over clipboards, but glanced up as Sherlock shifted slightly on the thin mattress.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes. I’m Doctor Washington and this is Doctor Ford. It’s good to see you awake,” the doctor nearest him began as he turned the pages on his clipboard. “Your friend, Doctor Watson, informed us that you regained consciousness for the first time last evening.”

“Where am I? How long have I been here?”

“You first arrived here just over a month ago. You were starting to show the signs of severe infection even before the plane landed. You also had three broken ribs, a lacerated spleen and several injuries. You were touch-and-go for a few weeks, but I’m happy to say you are expected to make a full recovery.” The way Doctor Washington rattled off the list of injuries made Sherlock’s head spin, but before he could wrap his head around it all, Doctor Ford took over.

“You are currently in Queen Alexandra Hospital in Portsmouth.”

“How long will I be here?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it will probably be a few weeks before you receive medical clearance – but your brother has also left instructions that you are to stay here until your situation has been officially resolved. There are guards at the door, so do not waste energy trying to escape.”

Sherlock sighed as he collapsed back against the thin pillow behind his head. He should have known that his brother would make this so much more complicated than needed.

\--

The next few weeks passed in a painful monotonous blur. John was by his side for the first week, to Sherlock’s great relief. He spent what few hours that he was conscious during that time trying to convince John to talk about what had happened to him in the months that Sherlock had been gone. The deaths of Mary and Elizabeth had been skimmed over as much as possible; John in particular skipped over much of the emotional aftermath, but Sherlock had been able to picture it pretty clearly nonetheless. The heartache that underpinned John’s description of the chain of events caused Sherlock’s heart to break for his best friend and all he must have suffered through practically alone.

Unfortunately from Sherlock’s perspective, John had been discharged after that first week. Since Sherlock was technically under military arrest, John hadn’t been allowed to stay with him. In fact, the only visitors Sherlock had were the doctors and nurses who treated him, and the shadows of the guards who stood outside his door; his brother had not even stopped by. Surely, as the man who was negotiating his freedom, his brother could at least come by to check on him. If his ribs didn’t still ache every time he moved, he would seriously consider mounting an escape attempt just to get his brother’s attention.

Planning an escape attempt would be a more feasible option if he hadn’t been confined to his bed until yesterday. He had managed to wobble the few steps before collapsing into an exhausted heap into the chair that sat next to the window. He had needed to sit for almost half an hour before attempting the few steps back.

He was a little stronger today. He had managed to walk unassisted to the chair for the second time a few minutes ago. The winter afternoon sun through the window wasn’t strong, but he lingered in the chair nonetheless, the weak beam warming his cheek slightly. But that wasn’t the only reason he was feeling lighter today; the doctor had told him an hour ago that barring any setback, he could be discharged from their care in the next few days. It felt almost too good to be true. There was the minor detail that even being discharged didn’t change the fact he was basically still under arrest.

A noise from the hallway drew Sherlock’s attention the view of an empty football pitch outside his window. He frowned slightly as he recognized Mycroft’s voice, even with all the ambient noise of the hospital and through a wall. But his brother wasn’t alone; there was someone else talking with Mycroft, though Sherlock couldn’t tell who was speaking. It was softer and harder to make out through the interference, so it most likely belonging to a woman. Sherlock’s brows drew together in concentration; the voice didn’t belong to Anthea.

Fortunately, Sherlock wasn’t given long to worry over the mystery woman’s identity. A cursory knock on the door was the only warning Sherlock had before the door swung open. Sure enough, Mycroft crossed the threshold, a small attaché case in hand, followed immediately by Lady Smallwood. Nerves tightened Sherlock’s stomach; her presence could only mean that his situation was resolved. While Mycroft hadn’t visited him, there had been a tense phone call shortly after John had been released where his brother had gone through the bare details of his current situation. He had mentioned that one of his colleagues was handling some of the negotiations to handle some of the delicate manoeuvres. Clearly, Lady Smallwood had been that helper.

“Mycroft. Lady Smallwood. So good of you to visit.” Sherlock greeted them, taking a small bit of pleasure as he watched Mycroft’s face tighten slightly at his flippant tone. But there was no way he was going to show just how concerned he was; John had mentioned before he left that it had taken a considerable amount of complicated negotiations before Mycroft had received permission to mount a rescue operation.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock,” Lady Smallwood replied smoothly as she moved from the doorway towards the bed. Because Sherlock was seated in the only chair in the room, she perched delicately on the edge of his bed as Mycroft closed the door with a soft click before standing guard in front of it. Sherlock frowned slightly; he knew how secretive Mycroft was about the inner workings of government, but did they really have to worry about eavesdroppers in a military hospital with a guard at the door?

“First off, Sherlock,” Lady Smallwood began, drawing Sherlock’s gaze from his brother back to her, “it’s a pleasure to see you back in England where you belong. When your brother approached me several months ago looking for help with your situation, I was glad to help.” She swallowed a bit nervously before continuing. “I felt partially responsible for the situation you found yourself in on Christmas day. After all…”

“Lady Smallwood,” Sherlock interrupted her before she could become side-tracked, “I do not regret what happened at Appledore. Magnussen was a threat not only to you and the Watsons, but to a great number of other people. My methods may have lacked a certain amount of finesse, but it was more important for me to completely eliminate the threat.” Sherlock shot a look towards his brother; Mycroft hadn’t quite managed to hide his snort of irritation during that admission. A cough from the bed drew Sherlock’s eyes back to Lady Smallwood. She looked like she was going to argue the point when his brother spoke.

“I do not wish to sound indelicate, but my brother has not recovered his strength. We should continue before his doctors attempt to interrupt.”

“Very well. I have spent much of the last several weeks meeting with colleagues in various positions. The intelligence work you accomplished in Russia and Ukraine was extremely valuable for our agents during an extremely volatile situation. Many of us felt that you had paid off your debt to society, in a matter of speaking, but that view wasn’t held by everyone. But we were able to reach a compromise.” She glanced over at Mycroft, who nodded before continuing the explanation. While he spoke, Mycroft pulled a couple of pieces from paper out of his case.

“Shortly after your departure, Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team noticed a series of suspicious graffiti markings at some of their crime scenes. The fourth scene had an additional tag as well – one that was clearly meant for you.” Sherlock took the photos and felt his stomach twist as he looked at the photo of a graffiti tag in an unfamiliar building that ready “I.O.U. S.H.”

“The crime scenes with the tags were all eventually linked to the remnants of James Moriarty’s criminal network - all small-time operations, pieces we had deemed too insignificant to worry about when you were dismantling the main network.”

“Are you suggesting that Moriarty faked his death that day on the rooftop?” Sherlock couldn’t quite hide the sceptical note in his voice. He had been less than two meters away when that gun had gone off in Moriarty’s mouth.

“Yes. We exhumed his body, naturally, but the DNA from the body in storage did not match the DNA samples we had on file from his previous incarceration.”

“Once you have been discharged,” Lady Smallwood took over the conversation at this point, “the government is going to consider you to be on strict probation while you investigate James Moriarty’s fate. Mycroft has a list of all the conditions. For example, you are required to stay within the city of London during that time, although you are at liberty to stay where you wish inside city limits. There are also mandatory twice-a-week in-person check-ins with your brother.”

“What if the investigation requires me to leave London? Moriarty obviously had a wide web.”

“In that case, you will need to clear any travel with your brother and myself. Most likely, he or someone he trusts will need to travel with you,” she replied without blinking an eye. “Do you have any more questions about the conditions of your probation?”

“At what point in the investigation are the conditions of the parole considered met? Is it when I’ve determined Moriarty’s status or when he is neutralized, should he indeed still be alive?”

“As far as the British government is concerned, your probation will be lifted when you have determined what actually became of James Moriarty after your confrontation on St. Barts. Once you have made that determination, the government will decide how to proceed.” Sherlock nodded his understanding, a small bit of relief momentarily calming his racing thoughts.

“If you have no further questions,” Lady Smallwood continued after a moment’s silence, “then I will depart so you can discuss specifics with Mycroft.”

Sherlock stared down at his hands while the smart click of Lady Smallwood’s heels faded into the distance. It was a struggle to clear all the theories and questions about this information from his head. Mycroft finally broke the silence.

“I have taken the liberty of informing Mrs. Hudson that you will be returning to 221B Baker Street after you have been discharged. She was thrilled.” Sherlock nodded while trying to mask the feeling of relief that flooded through him. He had been concerned Mycroft would make him stay with him until his probation was lifted. Fortunately, his brother seemed to realize that arrangement would be more likely to lead to another English civil war rather than a speedy resolution to the case.

“What about John? Where is he staying?’ Sherlock asked quietly, still staring down at his hands. He didn’t care if the question revealed too much to his interfering brother.

“John Watson is living at Baker Street. I believe he never returned to his other residence after….” Mycroft trailed off uncertainly, but Sherlock understood the implication. John’s decision not to return to the apartment he had shared with Mary was completely understandable.

“There is one last thing, Sherlock, before I leave you for now.” Sherlock frowned slightly as Mycroft opened the door and took a large package from the agent standing just outside. It was just a plain box, as far as Sherlock could tell; what in the world would his brother bring him here? The frown only grew as Sherlock took the box and was surprised that it wasn’t particularly heavy, despite its size. “This was recently sent to my care by Ivan Novik. I think it’s time it was returned to you.”

Sherlock stared at his brother for a full minute before turning his attention back to the box. He barely refrained from ripping it open in his impatience; his hands were also shaking so much he was having trouble opening the box. His breath caught in his throat when he finally managed to open the flaps and caught a glimpse of its contents.

Carefully nestled in the box was his Belstaff coat. He knew it was his and not a replacement; he could pick out the spot on the collar with the slipped stitch and the place on the shoulder seam where Mrs. Hudson had mended it after it had ripped on some barbed fencing during a particularly thrilling chase through London’s alleyways.

“You should also know that Maksim Lysenko is safely stationed back in the northern part of Ukraine. He was unharmed during your rescue and has decided it is in his best interest to lay low, as it were, for the time being. Should his situation grow precarious, I will personally see that he is flown to London for his own protection.”

There was a large lump in Sherlock’s throat that made it impossible to respond. He was relieved almost beyond words that Maks, who had been tremendously useful the two times they had worked together, was safe.

“Thank him for me, will you brother?” Sherlock finally managed to say, his voice croaky despite his best efforts to keep it steady. Mycroft nodded and turned towards the door. His hand was on the knob before Sherlock managed to speak again. “And Mycroft?” he paused while his brother turned ever so slightly back towards him. “Thank you. For everything.”

Sherlock couldn’t go on, but Mycroft knew what he meant. Mycroft would deny it to the end of his days, but Sherlock swore he saw a tear escape from his brother’s eye as they looked at each other in the dim hospital room.

It was only when Mycroft had shut the door behind him that Sherlock realized he had tears running down his own cheeks as well.

\-----

Sherlock could barely breathe as he stared out of the car windows at the familiar sights of central London. It had taken another full week after the meeting with Mycroft, but he had finally been discharged this morning with a clean bill of health. It was only slightly more than an hour from Plymouth to London, but the journey felt much longer. It was still hard to believe he was back here, mostly safe and sound. For months now, he had believed that he had seen the last of London, but here he was, minutes away from home.

He wasn’t a free man just yet, of course; he had spent most of the last week pouring over the details in the case files that Mycroft had left him. There wasn’t a plethora of information and he knew it wouldn’t be easy to track down the truth about what had happened on that rooftop. All the crime scenes had long since been cleared so any chance he had of examining the graffiti tags himself was long gone.

But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult after all. There were quite a few similarities between James Moriarty and himself, as John had said years ago now when they had first started their complicated dance around each other. Now that he was back in the city, he had no doubt that the Moriarty or whoever was impersonating him was preparing to make their next move to draw him out.

Sherlock put those thoughts away for the time being, however, as the car pulled up to a graceful stop outside that achingly familiar black door with the bronze knocker and the red awning next to it. Before the car had come to a complete stop, he had the back door open and he was out on Baker Street, the Belstaff fluttering behind him like a cape.

It took him a moment to fumble with the lock on the door, but it finally opened and Sherlock stood in the doorway as memories came flooding over him. He could hear John’s delighted laughter after their first chase and their footsteps pounding up and down the stairs as they had solved case after case. He had no idea how long he stood there lost in the tidal wave of memories. But finally, a creak of a floorboard from upstairs jolted him back to the present. The seventeen steps up to 221B seemed to fly under his feet and before he knew it, he was standing at the door to the sitting room. He took a few deep breaths before pushing it open and finally walking over the threshold.

He couldn’t believe the weight that lifted off his chest as he looked around the sitting room that had barely changed in the last few months. The only differences between now and when he had left for Christmas was the lack of newspapers piled around his chair and a general tidiness to the clutter.

A cough from the kitchen doorway made him spin around. He and John stared at each other for a solid minute, as if neither could believe they were finally back here together. John looked better than he did in the hospital; he was still too thin and the lines of grief still far too obvious, but his arm was out of the sling, at least, and his colour was definitely healthier.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

They each broke off with an awkward smile. Sherlock had a lot to say, but no idea how to say it. How deeply sorry he was about the deaths of Mary and Elizabeth, how much he had missed him while he had been in Russia and a million other things he just couldn’t find the words for. The silence drew out as they stared at each other, growing slightly awkward as both men struggled to take in everything that happened since they had last been in this space together. Finally, however, another memory came back and Sherlock knew just how to break the awkward silence. He sliced a wry grin towards John and asked him a simple question.

“Dinner?” It took a second, but finally, a wide smile broke over John’s face.

“Starving.”

“I know a good Chinese place near here. And I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No you can’t.”

Laughter filled the sitting room then and Sherlock shook off his coat and hung it in the proper place next to the door and settled down in his chair. John took his seat opposite and Sherlock didn’t even try to hide his smile. He knew he had a long way to go to earn his freedom, but right here and now, it didn’t seem to matter.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were back together in Baker Street. Right where they belonged.

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I've finally made it. I can't believe it took this long, but I've finally finished my first multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading this. All of your comments, kudos and gentle nudges have been extremely hlepful. 
> 
> As for what's next - I have a couple of one-shots that I've been toying with for months that I should finish, as well as some bigger ideas that keep teasing me. The best places to keep up with me are on my 2 tumblrs (http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com and http://amylaura76.tumblr.com).
> 
> Once again, thank you all! I hope everyone is as axcited for Series 4 as I am.


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